


Shimada Dreams of Sushi

by delicaterosebud



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 18:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13863813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delicaterosebud/pseuds/delicaterosebud
Summary: As the owner of a mediocre taco shack with tanking reviews and multiple health violations, the last thing that Jesse McCree needs is competition - competition, specifically, from a sushi bar so popular that it drove every other restaurant in the neighborhood out of business.From the very day thatShimadasushi opened its doors, Jesse had hated that restaurant with a burning passion. ...So how does he end up working for the man who runs it?





	1. Chapter 1

Three Michelin stars and five more on Yelp.

 _Shimada_ sushi was a name that struck fear into the hearts of wholesome, decent, family restaurant owners everywhere. Every day, there was a line out the door, twisting around the block and winding down the street for what seemed like miles. The city actually shut down the bus stop just to make room for the crowd.

 _Shimada_ brought in that sweet tourist money, after all. So what if honest, working class folk had to walk a mile, now, to get to the bus? Who would ever give a damn about them when the _president_ ate at that sushi place? Hell, when the president of _Russia_ ate there, too?

That restaurant was a fucking cash cow: the eighth Wonder of the World, apparently, from the way people were treating it. Jesse didn’t understand. Hell, he didn’t _want_ to understand.

Nothing beyond one _very_ pressing question, anyway - _What in the world was so special about raw fish on rice_?!

Any idiot could cut up a piece of salmon, slap it on a cube of Uncle Ben’s, and call it a day - but what Mrs. Martinez had done, right down the street? That was _art_. Her pot of menudo had been stewing for three years. She and her husband had just replaced the ingredients as they went. Maybe it wasn’t as ‘pure’ or as ‘healthy’ as salmon on Uncle Ben’s, but that soup had formed a truly unique flavor profile that captured the heart and soul of their bustling barrio. 

…Or at the very least, it _had_ , before the governor jacked up the rent of their state-owned housing and turned their colorful, little community into a cheap imitation of every other upper-middle class suburb. Sure, their barrio hadn’t been the cleanest or the safest place around, but at the very least, it had personality. Jesse would take graffiti and broken windows over perfect, renovated houses all made up of ticky-tacky any day of the week. 

Not like there was any point to fighting a losing battle. The Martinez family – and everyone else, really – had already moved out. The McCree family restaurant was the only original building from their old barrio left standing. Everything else had been painted and modified beyond all recognition. 

They were the last of their neighborhood, the last remnant of a dying community… but now, even they were struggling to make ends meet. Of course they were, with that fancy sushi restaurant located right across the street. 

Wistfully, Jesse gazed out the window, watching as the employees closed up shop. For most of the day, he’d been keeping track of how many people they’d served, but sometime around the lunch rush, he’d already lost count. 

…On the other hand, Jesse knew exactly how many people had eaten at Blackwatch Tacos that day. He’d counted each and every customer with his fingers, considering how rare and precious they were, nowadays.

On March third of that year, Blackwatch Tacos served five customers. Five. Not fifty, not five hundred. _Five_. At this point, it was costing his family more money to keep the lights on than they could ever hope to earn back in profits by running that joint in the first place.

“I’m headin’ out early, Mamá,” he muttered, throwing off his apron. He couldn’t bear to look at her, with her eyes all red, swollen from crying – or perhaps from all the sleepless nights, worrying herself sick. “This can’t go on. I gotta have a talk with the sushi guys across the street.”

His sister, who had been guilted by their mother to help out after school, only _scoffed_ with a glaring lack of love for the business that had been in their family for over three generations - “You wanna ‘talk’ to them? What’re you expecting, Jesse? You want them to close their restaurant? As if.” 

“Hell, maybe I do,” he snapped, putting on his hat, “Maybe I think those _Shimada_ guys should move to a place where they ain’t runnin’ mom and pop restaurants out of business. If they want to open some fancy-ass sushi joint, they ought to do it in New York, or LA, or all the other places where _rich assholes_ live.”

“Mijo, _please_ ,” his mother begged, in a quivering tone that tore his heart to pieces, “Everybody here is only trying to earn a living. Please, don’t start any arguments. The last thing that we need now are enemies.”

“’Don’t start a fight?’ Ha. Like those yuppies ever fought a goddamn day in their lives.”

“Might as well stop trying, Mom,” his sister sighed, rolling her eyes, “Jesse wants to be a ‘tough guy’ again. …Loser.” 

He wasn’t about to dignify that with a response. Slamming the door shut, with his sister’s irritating little comment still ringing in his ears, he stormed across the street towards enemy turf. Though the sushi place had already turned over their little door placard to read ‘closed’ in both English and Japanese – _they were too good for neon signs, apparently_ – Jesse shoved the door open as though he had a personal vendetta against the hinges.

The golden bell hanging over the door went _crazy_ , ringing loud enough to wake a sleeping giant. Immediately, Jesse had the urge to grab that stupid thing and tear it to the ground – along with everything else in that restaurant.

“Didn’t you see the sign? We’re closed, man…” mumbled a ridiculous employee with _green hair_ , who was just finishing up counting the till. Jesse couldn’t help but stare down at all of the hundred dollar bills, crisp and bright, positively _overflowing_ from the drawer... “Come back tomorrow.”

“…It is alright, Genji. We can serve one more patron,” insisted a deeper voice, slow and steady, coming from somewhere beneath the little sushi bar. 

It was then that Jesse truly allowed himself the time to take in the ornate decor. …There were tatami mats, little paper doors, but as for the seating arrangements… 

Jesse couldn’t believe it. 

That fucking sushi shop was running them out of business with only _one table_ : a _bar_ with six chairs. 

“I want to go _home_ , Anija,” whined Green-Hair, “Angela’s waiting for me.”

“Then go,” the deeper voice insisted, as its owner still rifled beneath the bar, “I can finish up on my own.”

Jesse coughed into his fist, preparing his gruffest, meanest tone, just itching for an argument – “Now, hold on, partner. I didn’t come here to –”

…He froze mid-sentence. Mouth agape, eyes wide, skin clammy, toes _tingling_ , heart pounding, _head throbbing_. 

_Shot through the heart._

As the sushi chef – nay, the sushi _angel_ \- rose from behind the counter, Jesse was certain that he’d never seen a lovelier sight in all the world: from the Grand Canyon to Yellowstone Park, from his mother’s smile to her sprawling garden…

“...Table for one, please.”

“Here. Please sit,” the angel offered, gesturing towards the seat furthest from the entrance. 

In his rush to draw closer, Jesse stumbled over his own feet, catching himself only with the help of the man with green hair. 

“…You sure you want to make sushi for this guy, Anija? I think he’s drunk.”

“I-I’m not drunk!” Jesse exclaimed, desperate to keep his seat in the holy pews of the sushi gods, “I-I just… I am… _so_ excited to be here. There’s been a line all day, you know.” 

The young man only stared with his eyes half-lidded. “Yeah… Sure thing, buddy. …Well, whatever- ”

As he twirled his car keys around his fingers, Green-Hair left the shop with a cheerful farewell – “Don’t come crying to me when you’re cleaning puke off of your kimono, Anija. …I’ll see you tomorrow if you don’t have a stroke.”

Putting on his smoothest smile, Jesse slid into his seat and leaned over the table. “ _Anija_ , huh? Is that your name, Pumpkin?” 

The angel, working faster than a machine, set a plate, containing two pieces of sushi, right in front of him. 

…

…

…No response.

Hot sweat ran down Jesse’s neck in _bullets_. Perhaps his sushi angel had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t heard him. …Did he need to repeat himself? Or… what if he would take offense to that? What if he tried to rephrase it, what if he –

“You should eat the sushi as soon as it is presented before you. The longer that you allow it to sit, the more muddled its flavor will become.”

“I-I… didn’t order anything yet, Sunshine,” he chuckled, breaking eye contact with his angel for just a moment, to glance down at the sushi with what he hoped wasn’t _obvious_ disgust. In truth, Jesse was a bit unadventurous when it came to food. He liked American, and Mexican, and… that was about it. He’d certainly never ventured into the realm of _raw meats_ before. 

…What if he got sick?

What if that fish was _cold_?

The thought of it repelled him… 

“Patrons of this establishment do not place orders. Here at _Shimada_ , we offer only one selection: the omakase tasting menu,” the sushi angel explained, with his shimmering, golden ribbon draped over his shoulder, “…Does this not please you?”

“No, it’s _great_!” Jesse was quick to lie, “It’s… fantastic. This is… This is real great.” He stared down at the raw fish and resisted the urge to prod at it in morbid curiosity.

“Well… here I go,” he reached for the ornate chopsticks… and _fumbled_ , making a goddamn fool of himself, as the angel visibly grew more and more irritated by the second. Nervously, Jesse dared to glance up at his beautiful face – only to see his fuzzy little brows knitted together in confusion and… oh no, was that _disgust_? It was disgust… “Ha ha… haah… I don’t reckon you have a fork, Sunshine?”

“…There are no forks in this restaurant.”

Jesse brushed away his bangs and realized that his neck wasn’t the only part of him that was sweaty. 

He was breathing hard. He realized, just then, that he had a hole in his sock. _He couldn’t stop staring at the sushi and imagining the fish still swimming around in the back_.

“Pick up the sushi with your thumb and middle finger,” the angel instructed, “Hold it gently, so that the rice maintains its shape. It is more delicate than many people would presume.” 

Jesse followed those words like scripture. This was a dance, after all – a dance to impress this… angry sushi chef who was likely cursing his very existence right at that moment. Gathering his courage and _shoving_ the sushi into his mouth, Jesse tried his damnest to stop himself from puking. 

Oh, _God_ , it was slippery, and slimy, and… _ugh_.

His eyes began to water.

“Are you feeling alright?” the angel asked, with notable concern – concern that made Jesse’s heart skip a beat, “…Are you choking?”

“N-No,” Jesse remarked with his mouth full, as he forced himself to swallow down that gooey abomination. “It was just… That was _so_ good.”

…His lies were met only with an incredulous stare, cold and hard as iron. “…Would you care for a cup of tea?” 

“Oh, _please_. I-I mean… that’d be nice,” he laughed, trying to ignore that fishy smell in his breath… When his angel set the cup in front of him, however, Jesse only peered inside of it, squinting. “…It’s _green_.”

“…Were you expecting something else?”

“I mean… whenever my mamá makes tea, it’s brown and… sweet,” he muttered with slowly waning confidence as the angel’s frown grew deeper and deeper. 

“Have you never tasted green tea?” Though the sushi angel didn’t say anything further, Jesse was certain that his next question would have been: _‘Are you a caveman or merely an uncultured swine?’_

Hesitantly, Jesse brought the cup to his lips… and immediately _gagged_ as the smell of a freshly mowed lawn assaulted his nose like a machine gun. 

“Oh, gee, this sure is hot,” Jesse exclaimed, trying to find any excuse not to drink that grassy swill.

“This tea is brewed to precisely fifty-five degrees Celsius to bring forth the full depth of its flavor.”

“Fifty-five you say? Dang, that’s hot.” …Or was it? Hell, it wasn’t like Jesse knew how much a ‘Celsius’ was. Coughing into his fist, he swallowed down the second piece of sushi and prayed that the ‘meal’ was over… only to soon find himself saddled with _another_ plate with _another_ two pieces…

Oh, God, _please -_

“S-So…” he began, eager to make smalltalk, as he quickly brainstormed ways to get rid of the sushi without actually eating it. …Perhaps when his angel turned around, he could dump it into that bamboo pot, or maybe he could just drop it into his soy sauce like an idiot – “…You didn’t answer my question earlier, Sunshine. Is your name ‘Anija’ or -”

“Shimada. My name… is Shimada.”

He must have been the owner, then, considering the fact that he shared his name with the restaurant. In truth, ever since Shimada’s sushi shop had opened across from his taco shack, the name “Shimada” nauseated him, making bile rise up from the pit of stomach. 

Only now could he see its beauty.

Shi-ma-da.

Dignity and grace. A somber beauty, despite all of the… testosterone. 

It was only then that Jesse truly thought about the fact that Shimada was a _man_. A _manly_ man, with a beard, and greying hair, and thick muscles, bulging from the sleeves of his ornate dress… robe… thing.

Jesse had never thought of himself as gay, but… perhaps he didn’t mind if it was with Shimada. He wondered what the sex would be like - 

“Are you going to eat the sushi?” the angel asked with audible irritation, “If not, then I would like to begin cleaning up for the evening.”

“Oh, _right_. Sorry, Pumpkin. …Shimada.”

Unwilling to hold his angel hostage for any longer than he already had, Jesse ate up the rest of the sushi – all twenty courses - as quickly as humanly possible, finding, strangely enough, that the more he ate, the more he actually… _liked_ it. The slime wasn’t a constant. There were different textures, different flavors. He liked some more than others. 

When he asked his lovely Shimada for more of “the red one,” he only replied, with a subtle smile, that “maguro” was his favorite, as well.

 _They had so much in common_!

They both ran restaurants, they both had beards, they both liked “the red one” –

“You know, this is actually my first time eatin’ Japanese food,” Jesse stated, eager to make conversation – eager to learn all that he could about his sushi prince. 

“As I presumed. May I state that it was… a rather bold move, to choose _Shimada_ as your first experience with sushi, considering the price.”

“Yeah, well, the president ate here, so I figured –” 

Wait a second… The price. The _price_! In all of his excitement, Jesse had actually forgotten that he had to _pay_ for this food! Fearfully, he pushed himself up on his chair, staring down at the little pile of plates stacked up on Shimada’s side of the bar. 

He hadn’t even asked about the _price_!

Now, if Jesse had to admit one thing about that restaurant, it was that _Shimada_ sushi was fancy. Like stepping into an old-world samurai movie. The presentation was impeccable. The food was so fresh, he could practically taste the saltwater. …And unlike Blackwatch Tacos, the tables weren’t even sticky. There wasn’t a single fly in the building, the floors weren’t wet, there wasn’t a single stain on Shimada’s uniform.

…And most impressive of all was how that restaurant’s sushi chef was so attractive that Jesse would have eaten _dog shit_ just for the privilege of sitting there, at that bar, in front of him. 

But could he even afford to sit there? In the end, that was the question.

“Uh… how much do I owe you, Pumpkin?” Jesse replied, _finally_ , with a warm and loving – and hopefully disarming - smile.

 

“Three hundred dollars, including tax. I accept only paper bills in denominations no smaller than twenty. Tips are not accepted, though the sentiment is appreciated.”

 

…Jesse didn’t even have three hundred dollars in his bank account, much less in his wallet. The color drained from his face. He opened up his cheap, torn little wallet – purchased from Walmart - and could have sworn that he saw a puff of _dust_ rise up from the sad and empty folds. 

“…I have forty dollars,” Jesse mumbled as a cold, miserable chill ran down his spine.

“Pardon?” asked his executioner, in a siren’s voice, sickeningly sweet, guiding him towards the jagged rocks. 

“I have forty dollars… in fives and singles.”

Right then and there, he saw his angel fall – shedding snow-white feathers by the bunches, his little halo, cracked and shattered. Within an instant, Shimada’s calm, dignified features twisted into the deepest, _ugliest_ scowl that Jesse had ever seen in his entire life. The sheer, overwhelming force of the man’s disgust sent Jesse shrinking down into his seat, pressing his back against the chair and wishing, at that moment, that a sinkhole would simply crack open beneath him and swallow him up right then and there. 

“…You forced me to work past our closing time for forty dollars in fives and singles.”

“I am _so_ fuckin’ sorry. I fucked up big time. I -”

“You… _ate my sushi_ … for forty dollars in fives and singles.” 

“I’m sorry! I… _Oh, shit_ – please don’t call the cops. I have a record; they’ll toss me in prison and throw away the key!”

“When I am finished with you… you will _wish_ that I had called the police.”

“Oh, God, what’re gonna do to me?!”

Shimada reached behind the counter for what he was _certain_ was a gun… only to pull out a matching uniform – _throwing_ it at him. 

“Give me your cellphone. I am holding it as collateral until your debt is repaid. Now, then… listen carefully: you will arrive at this restaurant at six o’clock in the morning tomorrow.”

“I-I’ll be here at… six in the mornin’,” Jesse parroted, _trembling_ in sorrow at having ruined his one chance of sleeping with the handsomest man in the world.

“You will wash dishes. You will unpack the fish and transport the rice.”

“I’ll wash dishes and… and move fish and shit. _Rice_. I’ll… move rice.” He fumbled with his phone, flinching back as Shimada tore it out of his grasp.

“You will not complain. You will work hard. You will obey my orders without question.”

“Yes, Sir, Shimada, sir.”

“Shimada- _sama_.”

“H-Hold up… Shimada-sama. I just got one question –”

“…Very well. _Speak_.”

This was his one chance to make amends. He had to phrase this carefully, he had to –

“Do I really have to wear the dress?”

And just like that, Jesse saw the very last traces of Shimada’s hope for him as an employee - and a lover - fizzle out and die.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh. My. _God_.” At six o'clock sharp, grinning from ear to ear like an idiot, Green-Hair jumped from his perch on the little bench outside of their shop, only to _sprint_ towards Jesse - who was currently dragging himself across the final corner of his unreasonably long journey. ...He’d missed his early morning bus. “You’re that cow pie from yesterday!”

“…Cow _boy_ ,” he answered back in exasperated monotone.

Practically bouncing on his heels from excitement, Green-Hair ooh-ed and aah-ed, walking circles around him like a bird of prey. 

“I knew it. I just _knew_ that something would happen. You looked like trouble the second you walked in. …So, what’d you do to piss off my brother? Did you sneeze at his sushi bar? I mean, the last time someone sneezed on the fish, he kicked out the guy and his entire group before some of the girls could even take off their coats. It was the dead of winter, and they'd been waiting for a turn at the bar for like, three hours. …The guy threw a fit - complained on our Yelp page and everything! You should _really_ read it; it’s a laugh! He called my brother ‘The Sushi Nazi!’”

“The _Sushi Nazi_? Well that’s offensive,” Jesse mumbled, rubbing at his neck – though before he could get another word in, Green-Hair rambled on.

“I know! Everybody is always so hard on my poor brother… He’s not trying to be a dick, honestly. It's just that Hanzo is very proud of his work, and he doesn’t like it when he thinks that people are ‘disrespecting’ the sushi, or whatever.”

Jesse narrowed his eyes, finally catching up with the other man's frantic speaking pace. 

“Hold up... that chef is your _brother_?!”

Green-Hair Shimada and Ponytail Shimada looked nothing alike – and it wasn’t just the hair color. A casual clown with mustard stains on his sweat pants… and a marble statue, hard and unforgiving. A childlike free spirit... and a _Sushi Nazi_.

“It’s hard to tell, I know,” replied Green-Hair, with a gentle pat on Jesse’s shoulder, “I’m the beautiful one out of the two of us. …Hanzo is only three years older than me, but he looks ancient enough to be sitting in a retirement home watching Wheel of Fortune, doesn’t he? He says his favorite food is maguro sashimi, but I bet you anything it's really prunes and Cream of Wheat.”

Hanzo... Was that his name?

Jesse was excited just thinking about it: "Hanzo" was definitely a name that he could scream out at night, buried in the other man, tugging on his cute little ponytail and watching him fray at the seams.

“...Where is he, anyway?” Jesse asked, and not just because he was eager to see what Hanzo looked like in the mornings, or anything. It wasn't as though he wanted to see the man, sleepy and lazy. 

“He’s probably inside the shop. His apartment is on the second floor.”

“He lives here?” 

Huh. Good news, then: Hanzo was probably a bachelor, after all. The sushi shop certainly wasn't large enough for a couple. 

“Yeah, he does. I've tried to get him to move out a couple of times, but he just won't budge. ...That’s just Hanzo, I guess: living for his job - and literally nothing else.” Strangely enough, Green-Hair looked somewhat _despondent_ at that. With a tired sigh, he dragged himself back over to the ornate, Japanese bench, throwing himself down onto the seat. 

“Oh? He don’t got any hobbies?”

“Just one: correcting other people’s grammar," Green-Hair laughed, "Keep on talking like that, and he’ll have himself a field day... or an aneurysm.”

After just a little more conversation, he heard the distinct sound of a garage door, opening…

“Guess he survived last night, regardless of all the shit you put him through. Here comes the man of the hour,” Green-Hair teased, as Shimada pulled up from behind the shop… in a _Bentley_ , of all things.

“Holy shit! Get a load of that car!” Jesse latched onto the hood like bird poop on the windshield – and he wasn’t at all surprised when Shimada slammed down on the horn, cutting three years off his lifespan at the very _least_. Slowly, his sushi angel-turned-demon rolled the window down, glaring at him with that petrifying scowl that never failed to turn his legs to jelly -

“Hey... Mornin’ Sunshine,” Jesse greeted with a cheerful tip of his hat, eager as ever to make amends. Though the sun had yet to rise, Shimada looked as pristine as ever: not a single hair out of place. “You look –”

“ _Ugggggly_!” Green-Hair teased, laughing as he threw his arm over Jesse’s shoulders, “When are you going to shave off that goatee, Anija? It’s gross.”

For some reason, though only his brother was speaking, it seemed as though all of Shimada’s displeasure was targeted towards _Jesse_. In a display of helplessness and surrender, Jesse only raised his hands timidly, nudging off Green-Hair’s arm and slowly backing away. "Now, hold on, Partner. I happen to think your brother looks great this mornin'. I really like that little ribbon. It's -"

“…Get in the car.”

“Wait, what? ...Whoa, just wait a second, Pumpkin,” Jesse pleaded, “You gotta understand that I got some problems with gettin’ in random people’s cars, and –”

“I am not a random person; I am your debtor. …And I order you to _get in this vehicle_.”

“Yes, Sir," he replied, without missing a single beat. 

“Ooh, shotgun!” Green-Hair screeched in uncontrollable excitement, shoving past him to slide into the driver’s side. 

…Well, perhaps getting stuck in the back was a blessing in disguise. As Jesse took the seat behind Hanzo, despite knowing how disgusting it was, he couldn't resist the urge to lean forward and sniff at his hair like some kind of stupid animal or a caveman. ...Sure, he sacrificed a bit of his dignity for that, but it was worth it. Hanzo's scent was bright and fragrant – not at all musky, like Reyes’s cologne or Jesse’s own cheap, dollar-store shampoo. It smelled like… _sage_ , maybe - an herb that Jesse couldn't entirely pinpoint, along with some kind of citrus.

“Hey Anija,” the younger man asked, as he pushed his seat all the back, “Why are we taking this guy with us, anyway?" 

"He owes me money."

"Yeah, I know that much: pretty much half the city owes you money for 'crimes against sushi.' Give me the details! I asked Cow Pie earlier, but he wouldn’t say! How bad did he step on your toes? ...Did he sneeze on you? Did he insult the decor?” A dramatic gasp, theater gestures and all... "No way... Did he ask 'what kind of Asian' you were?! Where you came from?! _Like you're a rug_?!"

“I never said that!” Jesse replied, completely exasperated.

“Excuse me -" Green-Hair scoffed, "But I will wait to hear my brother's testimony. Well, Anija? What did he do?”

For a moment, Hanzo didn't say anything at all. He only focused on driving, sitting up with perfect posture, as though he couldn't tolerate a single imperfection in _anything_. ...But then it happened: he took a deep breath... and exhaled, as though attempting to ward off an upcoming migraine. 

“...He ate my sushi.” Shimada replied, with such hatred and palpable emotional pain that he might as well have said that Jesse ran over his dog. “He _ate my sushi_... and intended to compensate me with... forty American dollars… in denominations of fives and ones.”

“Oh, no, not the singles. I bet they were all crumpled up, too,” the younger brother cooed. 

“They were.”

“No wonder you’re taking him to the market. Usually, you let people get away with washing a few dishes, but this? Spitting on your honor? ...Poor Anija. You must have been so hurt.”

“Wait a second -” Jesse interrupted, “What ‘market’ are you talkin' 'bout?”

They weren’t talking about… the _black_ market, were they? He’d heard the rumors, after all. Regardless of the gentrification, they still lived in a seedier part of the city. According to the news reports, he could get stuffed in a shipping container and transported halfway around the globe to toil away in _salt mines_ , or crab fishing boats, or whatever. ...That train of thought was completely unrealistic, of course, but in his panic - well… even in a state of complete _clarity_ – Jesse wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.

“The fish market,” Green-Hair explained, “Every morning, my brother and I travel to the docks to pick out the day’s omakase selections. The reason that _Shimada_ is so successful is that we always manage to choose the tastiest fish. If nothing meets our standards, then we just don’t open for the day. We either serve up perfection on a platter – or nothing at all.”

“Huh. That ain’t a bad philosophy.” 

Better than Blackwatch Tacos, anyway, where the only credo that they followed was ‘The Five-Second Rule.’

“Preparing sushi is an art - every piece bears my signature,” Shimada explained, with almost palpable pride, “I refuse to present anything less than my best efforts.”

“Then… _I_ got your best work yesterday, didn’t I?”

“...You did.” 

Jesse stared out the window as cars and buildings passed them by in a blur of color. 

“…I’m sorry, Pumpkin,” he stated, at last, “I didn’t mean to trick you, or to rip you off, or anything. I just got all caught up in the experience that I forgot to ask how much it all cost in the beginnin'. You sure are good at makin’ magic, you know that? It was... that food, and the lighting, and... everything, really. Hooked me like a spell, right from the start.”

He could see it from the rear-view mirror: in that moment, Shimada’s scowl morphed into an expression of surprise. Perhaps even _pleasant_ surprise.

 _This was it_! This was the moment when Hanzo Shimada would forgive his debt, declare his overflowing _lust_ for him, and invite him back into his home for a night of ravenous passion, and -

“...Did you forget to brush your teeth this morning?”

Fuck. 

He _had_. Jesse hadn’t been forced to wake up before sunrise since… _ever_ , really. As a teenager, he'd been chronically late to high school, and that was before he realized that he could just drop out. 

At five o'clock that morning, groggy and disoriented, Jesse had stumbled into the bathroom, torn off his pants, pissed (missing the bowl), changed his clothes – 

...Shit, _had he forgotten to shower?_

Jesse fell silent for a moment, busy retracing his steps. He'd fallen asleep on the toilet, and when he woke up, he glanced up at the clock and realized that he was about to miss the bus. After leaving a quick, barely coherent note to his mother, lying about his whereabouts, he was out the door and running to the bus stop. 

…He hadn’t felt good about lying to his own mother, sure, but better for her to think that he was out helping Jack and Gabe rather than Hanzo _Fucking_ Shimada. 

They owed the Reyes-Morrisons, after all. After Jesse was involved in the shootings with the Deadlock Gang, the courts presented him with only two options: being tried as an adult or taking a plea. Weekdays and nights in juvie and weekends in Overwatch, the local Boys & Girls Club. Morrison was a counselor at the time, while Reyes was just... well, to put it simply, Reyes was there to scare snot-nosed kids straight. He owed them his life. During the time that he'd known them, Jack and Gabe had stepped up to the plate as the father figures that Jesse never had. Not after his old man left his mother for a woman half her age.

He wondered what his mentors would think of him now, owing a random sushi guy three hundred dollars - and failing to brush his teeth, apparently. With morbid curiosity, Jesse coughed into his fist and took a hesitant sniff… only to regret it.

“You, uh... got a piece of gum?” he asked, half-chuckling.

Though Green-Hair burst out into wild laughter, in response to his question, Hanzo, the Shimada that mattered, only sighed... and rolled down the window.


	3. Chapter 3

“Get a load of this thing! It’s _huge_!” Jesse gaped, sizing up the tuna and snapping a photo before Shimada could scold him for smiling, or enjoying his work, or whatever other anti-fun measures that the man surely enforced. The fish, hanging by a metal hook, must have been at least seven feet long. Perhaps even eight. “Look at the size of its eye! That’s gotta be bigger than a baseba -”

The resounding smack of Shimada’s rolled up catalogue against the back of his head stunned him to silence, just as it did the first time Shimada had hit him, and the _second_.

“Can you not remain silent and control your impulses for a mere five minutes? Is that so much to ask?” Shimada complained, as grumpy as ever. Without giving Jesse another glance, he began walking off towards the rest of the market’s selections. 

“Hold up, don’t you want to take a look at this tuna?” Jesse asked, readjusting his hat – and rubbing at the growing lump on the back of his head, “I thought you said earlier that ‘maguro’ was your favorite. I mean… maguro is tuna, ain’t it?”

That’s what Google had said, anyways.

Shimada paused, then, turning back only to give him the stink eye.

“Hey, I listen when you talk!” Jesse declared with his hands raised in placating surrender, “If you like tuna, then don’t you want to buy some? Looks like it’s pretty expensive, too, so it must be the good stuff.”

“You have never selected a fresh cut of fish for yourself, have you, McCree-san?” Shimada retorted with cutting confidence.

“W-Well… I usually buy my fish in bulk. Frozen in vacuum packs.” 

That’s what their little mom and pop shop used, anyways - though their fish tacos were more foul than fresh. Even so, Jesse enjoyed them, regardless. The McCree secret recipe, expertly designed to mask the odor of cheap, frozen meat, consisted of a boatload of pungent, fiery spices that could make his eyes water from the mere thought of them.

…Not like Shimada could ever understand, when the man was more quality and technique than heart and soul.

As though Shimada were actually offended by his answer, his little nostrils flared, releasing a quick puff of breath. It reminded Jesse of a cartoon bull - or maybe a dragon, blowing billows of smoke before roasting the foolish knight alive.

“Come closer,” Shimada commanded, as he picked up the little metal tray sitting in front of the tuna. There was a little block of meat sitting upon it. It was fresh and moist… and _raw_. Despite the obvious health risk, however, Shimada started _poking_ it – and all with his bare hands, even though there wasn’t a bathroom in sight. “Feel the texture.” 

Though he didn’t want to touch the damned thing, unwilling to further disappoint the object of his affections, Jesse followed suit, regardless… not as though he knew what he was supposed to be looking for in the first place.

“Notice how the meat is inelastic - how it forms a lingering dimple when you press your finger into the flesh. Good maguro will be firm, always returning to its previous shape. Similarly, observe the way that the flesh falls apart as you stroke your finger against the grain.” 

“I’m guessin’ that’s… bad?” 

“It is _unacceptable_. Fresh fish will hold its form. …Do you understand? Do not be deceived by size and price, McCree-san. Quality must be carefully discerned.”

With that, the man turned away, walking off towards the other selections.

“Say, you’re pretty good at this,” Jesse complimented, trailing after him – and thanking his lucky stars that Green-Hair had slipped him a piece of gum after they’d arrived at the docks, “How long have you been in the sushi business, anyway?”

“Many years, now.”

“Do you like it?”

“Certain aspects of it.”

“…What else do you like? Movies? Ice cream? You know… maybe after this, you and me could -”

“I can tell you what I do _not_ enjoy, McCree-san,” Shimada _hissed_ , turning around suddenly to jab his finger against Jesse’s chest, “I do not enjoy making small-talk with men who swindle and deceive me.”

“It was an accident!” Jesse insisted, just barely holding back the urge to shout, “Look, I’m here helpin’ you out, ain’t I? I didn’t have to. Yeah, you have my phone, but I probably could’ve just cut my losses and ran. But I felt like shit for leavin’ you high and dry yesterday, so even though you are such a _hardass_ , I came anyway. Now, I’m tryin’ to make things right – I really am - but you are makin’ it so damn hard for me to do _anything_ , here.”

Shocked by his outburst, Shimada didn’t say a single word. He didn’t move a muscle - instead, staring up at Jesse in wide-eyed silence. Jesse’s heart raced a mile a minute. Without that perpetual scowl carved into his face, Shimada looked a dozen years younger: soft and innocent.

“I see,” he replied, as his eyes fell closed. 

For a moment, they just… stood there, surrounding by the singing gulls and the smell of cold sea brine. 

“In that event, perhaps you should help my brother. I am frequently told that he is the more personable of the two of us. People tend to enjoy his company.”

“…But not yours.” That last statement, too confident to truly be masked as a question, came out before he even had the chance to think it through. They broke eye contact, then – each man staring down awkwardly at the docks, and the fish. Anywhere but at each other. 

Shimada clenched his jaw, pressing his lips into a tight, thin line. He took a deep breath, and then another, as though calming himself before he could say something that he would regret. “…You should go.” 

He looked strangely vulnerable at that moment, as though he were accustomed to solitude. Jesse wondered if Shimada would have protested if he’d tried to comfort him. A hand on his arm, his thumb, stroking over his cheek… would he have hated it?

Jesse wouldn’t have been surprised. The man seemed strangely uncomfortable with the subject of even the mildest physical touch, after all - even towards his brother. In the car, he actually _flinched_ when his younger brother placed his hand on his shoulder.

Jesse wondered if there was a story behind it. An abusive relationship, perhaps? Some kind of trauma? In that event… maybe it would be better for him to abandon his efforts of romance, after all. He knew next to nothing of Shimada or the way that he lived his life, but even Jesse, dull as a butter knife, had been able to discern, with certainty, that the man was profoundly troubled.

_______________________________________

“Your brother’s a bit… _distant_ , ain’t he?” Jesse asked, as he and Genji – that was his name, apparently – walked through rows upon rows of clams.

“Don’t take it personally,” the younger man replied, nonchalant as ever, “He’s been that way since he was a kid.”

“Really? You tellin’ me he came out of the womb scowlin’ like that?”

“Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised! Everyone in my family is like that, you know? Hanzo was among likeminded people, back home.” The younger man shrugged, before tossing another clam into the bag that Jesse held open for him. “We come from a place called Hanamura. It’s a little village near Tokyo, though compared to the capital, it is _painstakingly_ traditional. We come from one of the oldest families in the village: a long line of sushi chefs. One of my great-great-great-great-great grandfathers actually prepared sushi for the emperor way back in the day before electricity and running water.”

“You don’t say,” Jesse replied, admittedly impressed… if the story were true. Genji seemed like the kind of person who enjoyed telling lies for the sake of nothing more than his own amusement.

“Oh, but I _do_ say. It was a ‘huge honor,’ apparently,” Genji shrugged, as though talking about something as irrelevant as winning third prize in a county fair, “So huge, in fact, that my family never shuts up about it! It’s basically all they ever talk about: keeping our family’s honor alive, working the family business. It was decided, since the day we were born, that Hanzo and I were going to be sushi chefs, too – and that we were going to train for it, every waking hour of every waking day. My father had my brother working in the back of our old restaurant in Hanamura, making sushi rice, when he was in elementary school.”

Talk about violating child labor laws. Though it wasn’t as though Jesse didn’t understand what that was like. After his father left, his family was just barely able to eek out a living. His mother had begged him to help out in their restaurant, but instead of being a dutiful son, like Hanzo had been, he’d just abandoned her and his little sister in favor of causing trouble with the Deadlock Gang. 

“What about you?” Jesse asked, admittedly curious, “Did your family put you to work, too?”

“Well, they _tried_ ,” Genji laughed, “I was never as ‘proper’ as Hanzo, though, so I’d skip my shifts, and eat on the job. I really hated that restaurant for a while, you know – though I think that’s pretty typical for any kid who’s drafted into working at a family business.”

“Any kid that ain’t your brother, anyway.”

“He’s the exception, alright. It didn’t hurt that his sushi was always impeccable. Mine was always a bit sloppy in comparison. Haha, my grandfather was _furious_. It got so bad, that I actually gave up on the restaurant business entirely to travel the world, for a while.”

“And now here you are again, makin’ sushi.”

“Yeah, isn’t that funny? After all that drama, here I am.” Genji’s cheerful expression wavered for a moment – his voice, losing its playful edge to take on an unexpected tone of maturity. “…My opinion regarding the restaurant business hasn’t actually changed, though. I’d rather be doing just about anything else. …But Hanzo needs my support. The restaurant is his baby. After following me to America, this is all he has to live for.”

“...All he has to live for? What do you mean by that?”

Genji shot him a sharp glare, before his cunning expression shifted back into casual nonchalance.

“Oh, y’know. Stuff and things!” he laughed, quickly covering his tracks, as though he hadn’t just dropped an atom bomb. Likely realizing that he’d said something that he shouldn’t have, Genji quickly walked on ahead, forcing Jesse to chase after him, “C’mon, Cow Pie, don’t fall behind! My brother’ll be pissed if we end up having to look for you!” 

It turned out that they didn’t have to travel far to find the other man; his little golden ribbon could be seen a mile away. Strangely enough, though he worked alone, Shimada had somehow managed to select twice as much fish as he and Genji had, and was now sitting on a bench, surrounded by coolers. Unlike an ordinary man their age, he wasn’t tapping on his phone or listening to music. Instead, he just sat there, still as a statue, staring out at the sea. 

“Shh… I’m gonna try to sneak up on him,” Genji chortled, tiptoeing closer – though the moment he got within fifteen feet of the man, Shimada glanced over his shoulder, glaring at him.

“Are you finished yet?”

“Almost!” the younger man deflected, feigning innocence, “Jesse and I just have to pay for these clams, and then we’ll be good to go.”

“I see. Then I will wait for you in the car.” 

Slowly, Hanzo began stacking up the coolers, as though he actually intended to lift up that veritable _mountain_ all by himself.

“You can pay for the clams on your own, can’t you Genji?” McCree asked, suddenly, “I, uh… I think I’ll help your brother carry those boxes back to the Bentley.”

“That will not be necessary,” Shimada snapped.

Ignoring his protests, however, Jesse grabbed a couple of coolers from the top of the stack. “Maybe you don’t need my help, but I’m lookin’ for ways to feel useful, here. Besides… I like your company.”

Such a shameless attempt at flirting… It was a roll of the dice, alright.

For a moment, even Shimada couldn’t hide his own embarrassment – and perhaps a little bit of _joy_ , judging by that ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. As cranky as that old “Sushi Nazi” could be, Jesse supposed that the man was only human. He must have hit a sore spot, earlier, by implying that nobody wanted to spend time with him. A sharp pang of regret jolted through him - as did a flood of relief when Shimada, after a calm, tired sigh, seemed to drop his grudge, entirely.

“I thought you claimed that I was a… ‘hardass,’” Shimada joked, for the first time since they’d met.

“You are - but I’m a glutton for punishment.”

_______________________________________

Later at the restaurant, after all of the fish had been moved and promptly dissected by the ‘Super Shimada Brothers,’ Jesse stood over Hanzo’s shoulder, watching him prepare some kind of rectangular omelet… some kind of _very complex_ rectangular omelet. 

“There is no standard recipe for tamago,” Shimada explained, simply assuming that Jesse was listening, “Every restaurant has its own set of ingredients, added at different times and in different proportions. Tamago is, perhaps, the most humble item that I could offer to our guests, but it is one of my staples. I always make sure to include it in the menu as either the first or the final dish presented. …A sushi chef may be judged entirely on the quality of his tamago. One may reasonably infer, from nothing more than unpalatable tamago, that the chef prepares other dishes just as poorly.

“Makes sense. If you can’t do the basics, the other stuff’ll probably be bad, too.”

“Just so. …Speaking of it, however, what did you think of _my_ tamago when you sampled it yesterday, McCree-san?” Shimada asked, though this time, there was none of the scathing sarcasm that Jesse had come to expect from the man, “And… I request that you speak frankly.”

“Well, I liked it,” he shrugged, though when Shimada merely blinked back at him, obviously seeking more information, Jesse gave in and continued, “I don’t really have anything to compare it to other than my mamá’s scramble eggs, but your tamago was fluffy, just the way I like it. It was moist, too, which was nice; I could probably take a few pointers, there. …It was a little sweet, though. I wasn’t expectin’ that, so it kind of threw me off a bit.”

“The sweetness is a personal touch,” Shimada explained with a smile, glowing with pride, “As I mentioned earlier, there is no set recipe for tamago, though most contain sugar. Those who prefer a sweeter egg may add more, and those who do not may omit it. …Though I tend to add more than others.”

“I’m guessin’ you got a bit of a sweet tooth?” Jesse teased, resisting the urge to tell the other man just how endearing that was.

“I do. I was rather fond of taiyaki and dango when I was a boy, though… I find, now, that they cannot compare to American pastries.” The man lingered on that thought for a moment, as though contemplating whether or not to trust Jesse with any more personal information than he already had. “My brother and his… _lover_ have a favorite restaurant in the shopping center east of here. The restaurant has too many items on its menu, and the dishes are far too diverse. As such, the staff are unable to focus their efforts and are, _predictably_ , unable to prepare any dish particularly well. However, they sell cheesecake that I admittedly find quite enjoyable.”

“You go there often?”

“No, it is Genji who travels there most frequently. I prefer to remain here, in this restaurant, or in the comfort of my own home. He brings cheesecake back to the restaurant for me to enjoy.”

“But wouldn’t you rather have it fresh?” Jesse laughed, already plotting out date ideas for the two of them. 

“That would require the possibility of interacting with his lover. She tends to travel together with him more often than not.”

“And… you don’t like her?”

“I am not fond of most people.”

Blunt as ever. Even so, Jesse found that a part of him admired Shimada’s honesty – though he knew that the man was hiding his share of demons; he hadn’t forgotten what Genji had told him.

“Well… what if you and I went?” Jesse offered, silently praying, to every god he knew, not to ruin this opportunity for him, “I mean, maybe you don’t like me, but you’ve been tolerating me since this mornin’, so –”

Interrupting him, Shimada actually _laughed_ , bold and bright – and so incredibly beautiful that it almost brought Jesse to tears. 

“McCree-san…”

 _‘I would love to go!’_ Jesse imagined him saying with unrestrained desire and joy, _‘And afterwards, perhaps you could take me home, tear my clothing to ribbons, and ravish me for the rest of the evening! Ooh, Jesse!’_

He shook his head, snapping himself out of his daydream before it turned into a _wet_ dream.

“Y-Yeah, Pumpkin?” 

“You do not even have the three hundred dollars required to repay your debt to me. If we went out to dinner together, I would be forced to pay for everything.”

…Shit.

Just like that, Jesse’s stomach dropped.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mamá?” 

As Jesse readied himself to leave the house for the day, he’d found his mother, waiting for him at the kitchen table. Sniffling, the old, tired woman wiped at her reddened eyes with the sleeve of her faded, motheaten sundress. 

Shimada could wait. Fearing the worst, Jesse sprinted to his mother’s side, heart pounding.

“Mamá, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Mijo,” she sobbed, clinging onto his jacket, “You aren’t in trouble, are you?”

“…What?”

 _How had she known?_ His heart sank, heavier than lead. 

Over the years, he’d caused his mother so much grief: dropping out of school, joining up with Deadlock and falling alongside them, quitting every menial job that had deigned to hire him on ever since. If it weren’t for Overwatch setting him straight, if it weren’t for his mother, offering him one last chance at making an honest living for himself, Jesse had no doubt in his mind that he wouldn’t have survived another year. She’d supported him for so long. She’d housed, and fed, and loved him. She’d endured so much, and for what? 

For him to end up in debt all over again.

“’Course not. I’m fine.” His trembling fist tightened, crinkling up the little note in his pocket, lying about his whereabouts for the second day in a row. “Can’t say the same for Jack’s basement, though. It’s flooded somethin’ fierce. He needs a little more help emptyin’ it out. I know it’s a lot of work, and that you really need my help in the restaurant, but Jack and Reyes would do the same for us any day. I think I owe it to them to -”

A resounding _crack_ echoed through the kitchen. 

…Jesse rubbed at his cheek, red hot and stinging from the slap across his face.

“You owe it to them to stop involving their family in your _lies_!” she screamed, shaking the windows, “What on earth are you doing, Mijo - sneaking out of the house doing who knows what?!” 

“I-I already explained it. I left a note,” Jesse began to argue, though when his mother’s eyes welled up with tears, he shut his mouth tighter than a vice, regretting his decision to ever lie to her in the first place.

“Am I supposed to be satisfied with that? One little note? Am I not allowed to worry? You wouldn’t even answer your phone. I just wanted to know when you would be home, but when I called Gabriel, he said that he hadn’t heard from you in days. Please,” his mother begged, “ _Please_ , just tell me the truth. You aren’t involved with the cartels again, are you?”

“No! No, I’m done with them.” He swallowed hard, his throat, tight and dry: a stark contrast to the rest of him, sweating like a sinner in church. “It’s nothin’ illegal. I just… _Look_ , I’m sorry I lied, okay, but I had my reasons. I swear. It’s just… It’s complicated.”

“Mijo,” she sighed, as though letting go of the hope and love she’d had left in her after all those years of grueling turmoil, “Are you in trouble?”

A strong urge to lie overwhelmed him, though finally, Jesse thought better of it. As though offering oblation, he hung his head, his eyes closed in a mockery of prayer. 

“Yeah. I, guess I am,” he said at last, “You know how you told me to stay away from that sushi place across the street?”

“…Oh, Dios mío. What have you done, _now_?”

 _Now_.

As though it were only the latest event in his endless chain of poor decisions. Shame welled up within him, festering in the pit of his stomach.

“That night, I went over to _Shimada_ , and… some stuff happened.” He shook his head, then, realizing that after all his mother had done for him, she deserved nothing short of clean and open candor. “There were damages. I ended up costing the owner about three hundred dollars, so now, I either I pay him back, or I work for him until the end of the week. The reason why I didn’t answer my phone all of yesterday is because the owner is holdin’ it as collateral.”

He didn’t think that he’d ever heard a whimper as miserable and frustrated as hers. She leaned back in her chair, looking up at the discolored, water-damaged ceiling and the dusty fan that hadn’t had power for over thirty years. Their house was falling apart, just like their business and their lives along with it. Three hundred dollars might not have been much to most people, but to the McCree family, it was groceries for a month. It was a dentist’s appointment; his mother desperately needed a root canal. It was bus fare. It was school supplies for his sister, who was, undeniable, the McCree family’s very last hope of making something of themselves.

Jesse coughed into his fist, struggling to continue, “I know it’s just a cheap slider phone, and that I could just cut my losses and run, but –”

“No,” his mother interrupted, “The right thing to do would be to pay back what you owe. …Even if I need your help in the restaurant, and even if those three-hundred dollars would mean nothing to them.” 

As she buried her face in her hands, sobbing all over again, Jesse wrapped his arm around her trembling shoulders in some semblance of comfort. 

“I’m sorry, Mamá,” he mumbled against her hair, “I’m sorry for everything.”

___________________________________________

He left home late that morning. 

By the time he finally trudged around the corner towards the sushi restaurant, he saw Shimada rolling by in his polished, black Bentley. Noticing him, Genji stuck his little green head out the window.

“Anija, pull over! It’s Jesse! He came, after all!”

In truth, Jesse had half expected Shimada to drive right past him without a single acknowledgement, but much to his surprise, the car screeched to a halt, tires grinding against the road. 

Shimada actually stepped out from the vehicle to speak to him personally. 

…He looked so _angry_.

Angrier than he usually did, anyway. His bushy eyebrows furrowed into steep slopes. His mouth twisted down into a scowl so hideous that, like the gorgons of myth, the sight of Hanzo Shimada’s displeasure could surely turn a lesser man to stone.

“I do not tolerate tardiness,” Shimada snapped, stalking closer, without bothering to wait for the morning crowd to disperse. Jesse just stood there and endured the humiliation. “If you intend to arrive late, then simply do not arrive at all. Now, _go home_ and aim to do better when you arrive at the restaurant at precisely six in the morning tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, still shaken from his morning ideal. 

“You disappoint me,” Shimada scolded further, though Jesse didn’t so much as flinch, when he was used to enduring such anger. He disappointed a lot of people, lately. “Yesterday, despite my better judgment, I had actually allowed myself to believe that you were sincere in your efforts to repay me. And yet today, you –”

Jesse squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for a lecture that never came. When he finally cracked open his eyes, he noticed Shimada looking back at him, not with anger, but with a strange, tender expression that Jesse had never expected from the man. 

_Pity_. 

“McCree-san,” Shimada whispered, cupping his cheek, “What happened to your face?”

His mother didn’t know her own strength. His cheek had swelled up like a red balloon, and his eyes were just as bad: hot and inflamed, glossed over with drying tears.

“I, uh… I had a bit of a rough mornin’,” he confessed – his voice, cracking.

“…I see.” 

At that moment, Shimada’s voice lost its cruel, cutting edge, never quite turning warm, but taking on a tone of soft sincerity that Jesse hadn’t heard since he was a child, still assumed to be good and wholly innocent. But nobody ever spoke to him so gently, anymore. Until that moment, Jesse hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed it: the feeling of being cared for. 

“Wait here,” Shimada insisted, before returning to the car. He whispered to Genji in quiet Japanese, and then suddenly, without warning, the younger man stepped out and took the keys from his brother, who only motioned for Jesse to join them. 

“If you would like,” Hanzo continued, “You and I may return to the restaurant while Genji purchases today’s selection alone.”

“Are we gonna set up the kitchen, then?” Jesse asked, slowly regaining his shattered composure.

“No. Not until Genji returns. Meanwhile, I will permit you to clean up and rest in my home on the second floor of the building.”

“You’d do that for me?” he couldn’t help but question, even as his gleeful expression betrayed his overflowing enthusiasm - a beaming smile that broke through his misery. 

“If it would please you. …Well, McCree-san? Would you like to visit my home?”

“Yeah! Hell yeah!” 

He couldn’t have thrown himself into that car any faster if his life depended on it.

“Why are you so excited?” Hanzo asked, as he slid into the passenger seat, “I know that my restaurant appears grand, but my home is quite simple in comparison. I have no luxuries with which to entertain you.”

“It ain’t about that. You could live in a cardboard box for all I care! It’s the fact that it’s your _house_. I just want to visit you. You’re –”

“Oooooh…” came Genji’s loud, obnoxious voice, muffled only by the gentle purr of the Bentley as they took off down the road. He could see the man’s eyes narrow, shrewd and cunning, from the rear-view mirror. “I see what’s going on here. Jesse McCree, you slimy little eel. You dirty dog. You _pig_!”

 _He knew_.

A cold chill ran down his spine. 

How Genji had managed to uncover his intentions so quickly, Jesse simply didn’t know. Were his desires that transparent, or was the younger man simply that perceptive? He wiped his forehead with the corner of his serape, staining it with pungent sweat.

“Of what do you speak, Brother?” Hanzo asked, completely oblivious, “What, pray tell, is ‘going on?’”

“…Oh, nothing,” Genji lied through his teeth, with a renewed, cheerful smile, “It’s not a big deal. I just want to have a little ‘chat’ with our Cow Pie before he follows you upstairs. Okay, Anija? It’s just about something we talked about yesterday at the market. It’s an American thing.”

Somehow, that meager explanation was enough. Hanzo lost his interest in their conversation entirely. When they arrived back at _Shimada_ , Hanzo unlocked the door and started climbing up the stairs, while Jesse simply lingered in the foyer with the man’s younger brother blocking his path.

“So, is it true that you just want to use my brother’s bidet?” Genji asked, loud and clear, with Hanzo, glaring down at the two of them in confusion before continuing up to the second floor, “American toilets are so primitive. There aren’t even any buttons on them! I can’t believe that you people live in such squalor.”  
“Y-Yeah,” Jesse fibbed, obediently playing along, “I saw one on TV the other day. Looks real fancy.”

“Oh, I assure you, it isn’t fancy at all. It’s the minimum standard of cleanliness; you Americans just live like pigs.” 

The second Hanzo’s apartment door slammed shut, Genji tore down his façade, his gaze turning sharp, focused with anger. With lithe strength that he would never have expected from such a slim man, he slammed Jesse against the wall, pinning him in place like a squirming insect. 

“Alright, enough of that _bullshit_. …You want to fuck my brother, don’t you, Jesse?” he pressured, his voice, dropping down an entire octave - a quiet, vicious growl.

“No! Hell, no,” he chuckled, lying through his teeth and trying desperately to worm his way out of Genji’s iron grip, “I’m just tryin’ to pay back a debt, here.”

“Liar!” Another vicious slam against the wall, knocking the wind out of him, “I see the way you look at Hanzo… Like you could just gobble him up like a _dragon roll_! Oh, you want him… I can tell. You sniffed his hair yesterday! Admit it! You want to fuck my brother, don’t you, Jesse?”

“Okay, yes! Yes, I do,” Jesse squeaked, gasping for breath, “You found me out. Congrats. Now would you let go of me?”

Snarling like a guard dog, Genji finally pulled away, only to walk steady circles around him like a newly transformed bird of prey. 

“What do you like about him?” Genji asked, continuing his interrogation, “Is it his money? His fame?”

“No, it’s… it was his looks, at first –”

“Oh, I see. You’re one of those filthy Americans infected with yellow fever! Well, Hanzo deserves better than to be stereotyped!”

“I said ‘at first!’ I’ll admit he’s a good lookin’ guy, but… he really is somethin’. Your brother ain’t like anyone I’ve ever met before. He’s brutally honest, and he don’t pull his punches. I thought he was a bitter ol’ asshole at first, but I can tell that when he cares about something, he _really_ cares. He gives it his all. One hundred percent. Pours his heart and soul into it. It’s… _amazing_ , really. He talks about this restaurant like it’s his goddamn baby.”

“And why would you ever find that attractive? Nobody has ever been interested in continuing a relationship with Hanzo once they have spoken to him.”

“Really?” Jesses couldn’t help but ask, incredulous, “But he’s gotta be almost forty. He’s never had a girlfriend or anything?” 

“…Hanzo has never had a friend, _in general_.”

Well, that was just depressing. 

Jesse actually cringed, shrinking into himself like he’d been physical struck. As if in response to the awkwardness that he’d created, Genji let out an exasperated sigh and took a seat at the bar. 

“My brother can be… difficult,” the younger man admitted, as Jesse quickly joined him, “He is stiff and old-fashioned. He doesn’t have any hobbies or even any modern interests, so he never has anything to talk about - nothing that would interest people, anyway. He is a very private person. He is pensive, and quiet, and very hardworking. Because he holds himself to such high standards, he expects the same of others, and is quick to criticize when people fail to meet his lofty expectations. I understand why people tend to think that Hanzo is unfriendly. I do. …And I will be the first to admit that my brother can be cruel – but we are family, and I love him dearly. I want him to be happy. I want to help break him free of this self-imposed exile: never bonding with others, never caring about anything beyond the Shimada name.”

Genji slowly shook his head, overcome with worry. “Jesse, my brother has spoken more to you in the past two days than he has with anyone else in over a _year_. …He praised you yesterday, after you had left for the evening; he likes the fact that you are eager to learn, and that you do not complain when he scolds you. He thinks that you are earnest and hardworking. Though it pains me to admit it… Hanzo is very fond of you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jesse laughed, his heart, light.

“ _It is_ ,” Genji snapped, dragging him back down into reality, “Or at the very least, it can be. I just want to make sure that you are acting with the best of intentions. …If you break my brother’s heart, Jesse, if you hurt him… I will make you regret it.”

Mouth agape, all Jesse could do was listen, world spinning, legs trembling, throat constricting, as Genji painted a more-than-vivid picture of the _hell_ that awaited him should he fail to tread lightly.

“I will obliterate you,” Genji whispered, staring down into the depths of his soul with a paralyzing, unblinking gaze, “I will _destroy_ you. I will grind your _fucking_ bones into a thin, red paste, scoop up the remains, and send jars of it, labeled as strawberry preserves, to your friends and family every Christmas for the next ten years. Do you understand me? If you hurt Hanzo, I will ruin everything you love.” 

The upstairs door squeaked open just as Genji had taken another breath to continue, sparing Jesse of another horrific scene. Tilting his head slightly, Genji slowly pulled away, though that murderous look on his face never wavered – not until Hanzo addressed him directly.

“The market will close if you do not depart soon, Genji,” Hanzo called from the second floor of the building, glancing over the railing, “What is delaying you? Is something the matter?”

“No,” Genji shrugged, putting on his friendly, carefree mask, “Everything is going to be just fine, now that Cow Pie and I are on the same page. …Aren’t we?”

“Y-Yeah,” Jesse laughed nervously, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“…Good,” Hanzo answered with a tentative smile, before beckoning Jesse up the stairs, “Then let us make haste, as well, McCree-san. Our tea is getting cold.”

_He made tea!_

Gathering his courage and holding back his excitement, Jesse quickly jogged up the steps into Hanzo’s home. From the corner of his eye, however, he could see Genji staring up at him, drawing his finger across his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience regarding this latest chapter update!
> 
> I am always a little busy at the end of the academic year. I will, however, also be starting rotations this summer, so further updates for both this story and Nocturne may have a bit of a delay, though I will try my best to update at least once a month, if not more frequently. 
> 
> I appreciate your understanding, and I hope that you enjoyed this chapter; please feel free to let me know what you think of it or this story in general!


	5. Chapter 5

Handcuffed and marched through the courtroom, Jesse and the other members of Deadlock had found themselves condemned to life in prison. Though he was only a boy of sixteen years, they’d tried him as a grown man – though unlike an adult, unlike the grizzled, veteran criminals who made up the gang’s leadership, when the verdict came down, Jesse wept. 

He stood in that courtroom and fell apart at the seams. His entire body trembled with the force of his uncontrollable sobs, as he cried and begged for his mother like the child he was. 

He’d only spent two weeks in prison before Overwatch had rallied the public and successfully petitioned for his release. Even so, years later, he’d never forgotten that feeling of hopelessness: the haze of slowly sinking dread and creeping desperation. At his darkest moments, he could still feel the walls closing in on him. The hot, stagnant air of his cell, sticky with sweat, kept him balanced on a razor’s edge between reality and madness. Every breath felt as though he were suffocating. 

He never thought he’d have to feel that way again.

…But Hanzo’s apartment felt like a prison. 

It was a dark and lonely room that bore far too close a resemblance to the man who lived inside of it. It was shuttered away by thick, blackout curtains and a door so heavy that even a man as strong as Jesse struggled to hold it open for more than a moment. And yet, despite its weight, it slid closed without a single notable noise. Neither outside light nor sound permeated into that room, which seemed to hover in its very own plane of existence, closed off from the rest of the world. Not a single picture or decoration could be found, whereas in Jesse’s home, family photographs dating back generations, graced their walls and countertops; little flowerpots sat on windowsill, overlooking the garden that they shared with the neighbors. His sister’s irritating, autotuned music roared from her speakers and flooded the house, overpowered only by his mother’s incessant whistling. Though the McCree homestead was old and rotting, though the ceiling leaked, and the paint was fading, at the very least, it felt like a home. 

Whereas Hanzo’s apartment was lifeless. Deathly quiet and just as still. 

A little cot sat in the corner of the room, a stark contrast to Jesse’s bed, covered in his abuelita’s quilts. The only other furniture in the room was a low, Japanese style table and a single, matching cushion, which betrayed the sad and lonely fact that its owner was so solitary that he simply couldn’t justify buying a second. Hanzo didn’t even have a kitchen. In its place, instead, was a portable stove and a single pot, sitting beside an industrial sized box of instant noodles and a sack of dried, white rice. 

A profound sense of isolation struck him at that moment. Jesse swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and tried in vain to hide his discomfort.

“If you would like to wash your face, you are welcome to make use of the restroom.” Hanzo awkwardly muttered, before flipping on the lights – or rather, the _light_ , singular. A bare, incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering every now and again. 

“Oh, uh… thanks.” 

“I understand that you wished to use my bidet. I assure you, however, that it is not quite as interesting as my brother had claimed.” 

Following Hanzo’s example, Jesse kicked off his shoes and took a seat at the table. In truth, he would have been content with sitting on the tatami mats, if Hanzo hadn’t ushered him towards the lone cushion. As cold, and mean, and bitter as Hanzo appeared at first glance, the man was a surprisingly generous host, considering what little he had to offer.

It only served to make him feel guilty.

“Do not hesitate to make yourself at home, McCree-san,” Hanzo implored, pouring him a cup of tea, “I must apologize for the meager offerings that I present to you. I do not often entertain guests.”

“No, it’s… it’s great,” he lied, sipping awkwardly at his tea. Though it tasted just as grassy as the cup he’d been served during his first night at _Shimada_ , it was clear, even to a man who knew nothing about tea, that the quality of the beverage in Hanzo’s apartment was far lower than that which he kept in the restaurant. 

It was bitter and acrid, with an artificial, chemical scent.

When Hanzo offered him a hot towel, Jesse pressed it against his cheek with a forced smile – though the longer he sat there, the more difficult it became to maintain his charade. Creeping questions wormed their way into his mind, unable to be silenced. 

_Was Hanzo struggling financially?_

He looked up at the dimming lightbulb and couldn’t help but wonder. When he’d shorted him three hundred dollars the first night they’d met, did it mean more to the man than he’d presumed? 

He wasn’t going to bring it up. He was going to heal his wounds and enjoy his mediocre tea in silence, at least at first - but then he glanced over into the bathroom and realized that the mirror was broken. How long had it been like that? Why hadn’t Hanzo bothered to replace it? 

…Was his financial situation truly that dire? 

“Han –” he began, setting down his cup with a firm clatter, “I know I’m oversteppin’ my bounds, but… is everything okay, here? Are _you_ okay? You don’t got money problems, do you?”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t mean anything by it, really,” Jesse was quick to reassure, with his hands raised in placating surrender, “It’s just that your living arrangements are pretty scarce. Lookin’ at this room, and what’s in it… or what _isn’t_ in it – to be honest, it’s got me a little worried about you. You don’t even have any real food in here. Don’t tell me you’re eatin’ rice and ramen all day.” 

“There are leftovers from the restaurant -” 

“ _Bullshit_.”

Hanzo froze mid-sip, looking up at him with growing dread as he slowly lowered his little teacup. It was almost as though a part of him had expected Jesse to simple play along with his loosely crafted lie, if only for the sake of courtesy, instead of daring to call his bluff. 

“You buy just enough fish to meet demand,” Jesse stated with resounding finality.

Completely silent, on high alert, Hanzo straightened his back and tilted his head just a little bit higher, giving off the air of a man, proud and dignified, infallible and untouchable. He was getting defensive. Jesse knew that much.

“…What of it?” his host finally answered. He could see the muscles near his eye pull taut, twitching from the force of his scowl alone.

“This isn’t healthy – that’s ‘what of it.’ You need food. You need… I don’t know –” Jesse shook his head, steeling himself for the most awkward conversation of his life, “You need sunlight, and a real bed, and a house that doesn’t look like a prison cell. Are you short on cash? Is that it?”

Hanzo didn’t answer. 

“Look, I’m sorry if I made things hard for you. I’m sorry if you really needed that three-hundred dollars. If you did, I’ll… I’ll ask around for loans to get that money ASAP. If you haven’t been eating well because of me, I don’t know how I can live with myself. I –”

“I _never_ eat well,” Hanzo finally confessed with an exasperated, mournful little sigh, “This has nothing to do with you; money was never an issue.” 

“Then what is it?” Jesse half-laughed, though more out of disbelief than true humor. “You own the busiest restaurant in the state. You’re a goddamn chef. There is literally no reason why you shouldn’t be livin’ it up right now. At the very least, make yourself some sushi.” 

“Preparing sushi is not a simple task, McCree-san. Contrary to what many people seem to believe, is more than the simple act of placing fish atop of blocks of rice. It is an intensive labor of focus and passion - and I fail to see why I should go through such trouble for myself. Alone in this room, there is nobody to impress. Nobody to please.” 

“So you’re _lazy_. Is that it?”

Immediately, Jesse flinched back at the look of absolute _hatred_ that flashed across Hanzo’s face at that moment, as though he’d just insulted his mother instead of his work ethic. 

“…Get out of my apartment.”

“For the record,” Jesse continued, eager to clarify himself before Hanzo lost his temper, “I don’t think you are. I think you’re the type of guy who’d work himself the bone and be damn proud of what he accomplished because of it. But that makes it more confusing. It just doesn’t add up: you don’t take care of yourself - but not because you’re poor, and not because you’re lazy. So what the hell is it? What’s goin’ on with you?”

Hanzo crossed his arms, shirking away as much as he could while still maintaining a modicum of dignity. It was clear from his posture alone, however, that the man just wanted to run away. 

“It is simply the way that I choose to live my life.”

“But why would anyone ever choose this? How could you -” 

…And then it hit him. 

The isolation, the loneliness, the empty room, and Genji’s fierce protectiveness. _The broken mirror_ ; he wouldn’t have been surprised to find blood on the glass. He remembered something that Genji had told him at the fish market in uncharacteristically solemn tones: the restaurant was all that Hanzo had to live for. He had no hobbies, no friends, no nothing. Outside of _Shimada_ restaurant and his one room apartment, Hanzo simply ceased to exist.

He had no dreams or emotions of his own. 

The worst part of all was that he chose that fate for himself.

Jesse’s confusion morphed into understanding, and then into pity. He couldn’t bear to maintain his accusatory tone, after that. 

“Han… do you think you don’t deserve nice things?”

For a moment, he thought that Hanzo wouldn’t answer – not as though he would blame him. The questions he’d asked were rude and insensitive despite the well-wishes behind them. Any person would be offended at having their own houseguest interrogate them in their own home. And yet at that moment, something completely unexpected occurred: Hanzo’s anger melted away into what could only be described as a quiet and dignified acceptance that Jesse had learned the truth about him. 

For the first time since they’d met, Jesse saw Hanzo Shimada slouch. He broke his perfect seiza and crossed his legs, resting his elbows on his knees and slumping over, as though the weight of the world came crashing down. 

For a moment, they sat in forced, awkward silence, as Hanzo struggled to piece his words together – or perhaps the man was simply stalling for time, until Jesse would tire of him and leave. In truth, Jesse didn’t actually know him well enough to read him, at that point. He was just about to get up and leave when Hanzo finally spoke.

“Have you ever seen a film titled _The Opportunist_?” 

Jesse only looked back at him, confused. 

“No,” he answered, “But what’s that got to do with this?”

“Everything,” Hanzo answered, staring at him with that unwavering, thousand-yard gaze, “ _The Opportunist_ is a documentary. A documentary… about me.” 

That effectively silenced him, holding him spellbound until Hanzo was ready to continue. 

“It was originally filmed in Japanese, but people around the world found it so amusing that they translated it into multiple different languages. In it, they described the cutthroat nature of the restaurant industry – and of the Shimada family. The lengths that we had gone through to ensure our continued success in a world that seems to value convenience over quality and tradition. I had thought, originally, that the reporter who met with me simply wished to tell the ‘glorious’ tale of my family’s history, but instead… instead, they told the truth.”

“…What do you mean by that? It’s just a restaurant.”

“Precisely. It is only a restaurant. All that it is able to provide for me is money and honor. …How much did Genji tell you, McCree-san? Do you know the reason why he came to America?” 

“He said that he got tired of the restaurant business.”

“That is a lie.” Hanzo retorted, “It is a lie that he tells often, in a misguided attempt to protect me. In truth, Genji came to this country because he had no other choice. He had no education in Japan; he had a criminal record. The only person who would ever hire him was me. As the eldest son of the Shimada family, I was the one who inherited the original _Shimada_ restaurant from my father. When I took over the business, my relatives encouraged me to reject Genji’s application, but I insisted that my brother and I continue to work together, as a team. …But you know him. Genji has always been… free-spirited. He would make up excuses and refuse to work the long, grueling hours that I had set for the both of us. He wanted to play with his spray paints and his back-alley whores. He dyed his hair green and perpetuated an image that I did not wish to be associated with _Shimada_ sushi. …He was caught having intercourse with a woman in the back alley leading to our kitchen. It caused quite a scandal, at the time.”

“So what did you do?”

“I fired him,” Hanzo replied without hesitation, as though he’d been burning to let out the truth for ages, “I fired my own brother, knowing that he had no other skills and nowhere else to go. Once word had spread that Genji had failed to keep a job even in his own family’s restaurant, nobody in the restaurant industry would hire him. He was not even skilled enough to branch out on his own. In truth, at the time, Genji’s sushi was mediocre, at best. Without him dragging down the family business, _Shimada_ flourished, and we were more prosperous than ever. I had grown arrogant. I was so proud of what I had created, that when the reporter came asking for an interview, I accepted her offer immediately.” 

Though he wished he could have said otherwise, in truth, Jesse believed every word of Hanzo’s story. He seemed the type of man who was determined to accomplish anything he set his mind to, even if it came at the cost of using other people as stepping stones. 

“If you were doin’ well, though, then why did you leave?”

“I watched the documentary and realized that my focus on my work had turned me into a man that I could no longer admire. The way that I spoke: about maximizing profits and cutting costs… about firing Genji – was revolting. I compared the act to amputating a gangrenous limb, so that the rot would not spread to the whole of the body.” 

“Oh, shit… I remember that quote! There was an article about you!”

“There were _many_ articles,” Hanzo continued, with a tired, joyless laugh, “They angered me, at first, and I filed a lawsuit against the reporter and her company for slander. …I won.” 

He didn’t know why Hanzo would ever admit to such a thing – something that would surely earn him enemies.

“And with that money, I was able to expand _Shimada_ to a Kyoto branch. …But in the end, they were only restaurants. Money and honor could not bring me joy. I poured over those articles and that documentary time and again, and eventually, I realized that the chef in those stories was soulless. The joy that I once found in the restaurant industry had disappeared. It had lost the wonder that I once saw in it as a child. And it was then that I discovered that it was not the mere act of preparing sushi that made me happy; it was running the business with my family. My father and brother. I did not realize how cold I had become until I had truly come to recognize the villain portrayed in that documentary. …I am the opportunist, who chose fame and money over his own flesh and blood. So to answer your question, _no_. I do not believe that I deserve to be treated particularly well. Now, after all this time, I have finally begun to make amends, but I still have so far to go.”

He watched as Hanzo averted his eye contact and allowed his seamless posture to falter, just _barely_ , as if preparing himself for the disappointment of listening in silence, as Jesse gathered his belongings and walked right out the door. For a moment, about halfway through Hanzo’s explanation, he had actually been tempted – but then the man had earned his pity all over again, and a dozen times over. 

“…Call Genji,” Jesse said suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“Call Genji and tell him you’re closin’ the restaurant for the day. Hurry – before he gets to the fish market, and we’re stuck sittin’ on fifty pounds of clams.”

“Why? What nonsense do you have planned?” Hanzo asked skeptical as ever.

Jesse sighed, trying his damnest to sound eloquent when in truth, he could barely string his words together. “You’re gonna have a day off. You and me are gonna go down to _my_ restaurant, and you’re gonna have a decent meal for once. I know you think you don’t deserve it, but you’ve been struggling for a long time, haven’t you? You had it good in Japan, but you packed your bags and came here – for Genji. That ain’t somethin’ a bad person would do. Just let yourself have this.”

He hadn’t been expecting excitement; a man as serious as Hanzo seemed utterly incapable of it – but at the very least, he’d expected some sliver of joy. Or, rather, he hadn’t expected Hanzo to focus in on the one thing he wasn’t prepared to explain.

“ _You own a restaurant_?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, “It’s… It’s the taco place across the street. You know – Blackwatch.”

“…The restaurant with broken windows and graffiti on the walls?”

“You don’t have to say it like that!” Jesse whined, before remembering that the conversation wasn’t even supposed to be about him at all, “…But yeah. It’s that one. Truth is, I first came into _Shimada_ to give you a piece of my mind. Your restaurant’s been runnin’ me out of business. Me, and everyone else in this neighborhood. Nobody can compete with the food that you make here. You’re bringin’ in all these yuppies and makin’ it impossible to pay the rent. …So I came in here to tell you that. But when I saw you –”

Despite the morbid nature of their conversation, Jesse couldn’t help but smile, thinking back to that moment. The moment that started it all. 

“When I saw you standin’ there, _scowlin’_ , the only thing that I could think about was that you were… beautiful. I just wanted to be with you. Just a little longer.”

“You… came to _Shimada_ to argue with me about business. You are a business rival.”

“No.” Jesse could say that honestly, now. “No, I see the way things really are, now: I could never compete with you. You and me ain’t even on the same level. I learned that you ain’t just takin’ advantage of the times and makin’ trendy food for the sake of fame or money; you put some serious work into all of this. You’ve dedicated your entire life to makin’ sushi – and you’re here, now, with your brother, after everything the two of you have been through. You ain’t gonna give this place up easily, are you?”

“No. For many years, Genji refused to speak with me. His friends refused to share his contact information with anyone in the Shimada family. Only after I abandoned the business myself, and came to America in search of him, did he finally afford me a second chance… perhaps out of pity.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Jesse answered honestly, “He doesn’t pity you. I think he’s just happy that you finally remembered what runnin’ a restaurant is all about: makin’ good food with people you love and sharin’ it with whoever walks through your doors. You and me are on different levels, but deep down, we’re both chefs at heart. So if you run me out of business, Han… well, I guess it’s only fair. You’re just the better chef – so much better than I could ever be.”

“Restaurants that cannot compete with _Shimada_ ’s quality do not deserve to stay in business,” Hanzo retorted, as merciless as ever - though what followed was a kindness that he never expected from the man, “But even if you are bad chef and a bad businessman, I do not believe that you are a bad _person_ , McCree-san. During the short time that we have known each other, you have treated me with more kindness and patience than I deserve. If my presence here forces you to close your restaurant, then… I would be willing to hire you.”

“Thanks, but we both know it ain’t just about the money,” Jesse chuckled, “My grandparents opened Blackwatch. It means a lot to me. I still remember helpin’ my abuelita make tamales in the back after school. As much as I like you, Han – and I really do like you – I don’t think I could bring myself to support another restaurant if the taco shack went under.” 

“I see. Then you refuse out of principle.” A barely perceptible smile fell over Hanzo’s features, fond and gentle. “That is quite a respectable decision, coming from you.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means… that I have misjudged you. A rare occurrence.” 

Hanzo pulled out his phone and began typing away.

“…What’re you doin’?”

“I am messaging my brother, as you had suggested. It appears as though I will be taking the day off, after all. I look forward to the dishes that you will present to me.”

Jesse’s face lit up with ever-growing excitement. “Guess I better make somethin’ impressive, then!”

“You have _already_ impressed me,” Hanzo replied, silencing him. Though his voice barely rose above a whisper, it was filled with fondness and what Jesse could almost pin down as admiration. “You are a good man, Jesse. Contrary to what you seem to believe… it is I who cannot compete with you.”


	6. Chapter 6

During what should have been a bustling lunch hour, Jesse and Hanzo sat at the only occupied table in the entirety of Blackwatch Tacos - accompanied, of course, by Jesse’s mother, who seemed almost determined to deny them their solitude. Though cheerful Mexican folk tunes chimed forth from Señora McCree’s dusty, old cassette player, a stark feeling of cold, depressing emptiness permeated the walls of the outdated diner. Dozens of people passed their doors from the sidewalk, and yet not a single one stopped to look inside. Across the street, however, a small crowd had gathered at _Shimada_ , with yuppie couples and tired businessmen practically pounding on the locked door and tugging at the handle. 

If only they had the insight to check the _Shimada_ social media pages that Genji updated every now and again: _closed for a family emergency_. It was funny, in a way: that Hanzo’s decision to be social for a day constituted a life-altering, mind-blowing event in Genji’s book.

What _wasn’t_ funny, in contrast, was the difference in enthusiasm for _Shimada’s_ food compared to that of Blackwatch Tacos. The McCree family restaurant had closed for an entire week after his mother had her hysterectomy, and nobody bat an eye. _Shimada_ was closed for one single day, and the entire street went mad. 

…Now that was just sad.

Jesse looked around the empty restaurant and sighed. Despite the veritable feast that his mother had prepared for them, Jesse just didn’t have much of an appetite. Not when she was glaring daggers through his skull. She was still bitter about the trouble that Jesse had caused for their family. 

Either Hanzo didn’t notice the growing tension, or, more likely, he was simply so stiff, so proper that he didn’t want to make a comment and bring her odd behavior to light. Cold as the man could be, at times, Hanzo was certainly polite enough when it came to his elders. The way he’d treated Jesse’s mother painted a stark contrast to the way he’d treated the man, himself, during their first meeting. He’d greeted her with a bow and a proffered business card that was printed on thick, smooth paper more expensive than some of the entrees that Jesse sold. 

As the minutes ticked onward, the trio continued to eat in absolute silence that was broken, intermittently, only by the buzzing of flies overhead. A particularly large specimen broke free from the hanging strips of flypaper to torment Jesse incessantly, flying dizzying spirals around his head. 

“These spiced beans are excellent,” Hanzo remarked, in what was obviously an insincere attempt at flattery, if only to defuse the palpable tension between mother and child, “They remind me of a Japanese staple, of which I am rather fond. In my country, azuki beans are often incorporated into traditional desserts such as daifukumochi and oshiruko.”

“That’s fascinating, Mr. Shimada.”

Hanzo perked up, anticipating conversation, but Jesse’s mother said nothing further, avoiding all eye contact as she picked up a sticky bottle of homemade hot sauce and mixed the liquid napalm into her rice, toying with the food just to pass the time and give the illusion of indulging in a shared meal together.

After he realized that he wouldn’t be receiving any further response, Hanzo coughed into his fist and, properly subdued, went right back to picking at his beans.

“In truth… I enjoy all manner of desserts,” the man finally continued after another drawn out moment of awkward silence, “Jesse tells me that you prepare a decadent caramel cake that I simply must sample.” 

It came out of _nowhere_.

Jesse’s mother slammed down her glass of water so hard that it shook their little plastic table like an earthquake. Jesse flinched back in terror, whereas Hanzo just froze, eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. 

With a stretched, forced smile, Señora McCree took a deep breath in… and let it out. “…Did Jesse also tell you that this family doesn’t have the money to waste on luxuries like that?”

Jesse choked on his tacos - and Hanzo was just too stunned to help him. Paralyzed by a lethal combination of social awkwardness and secondhand embarrassment, Hanzo sipped at his red, plastic cup of water in silence. The seconds ticked by, and yet he never lowered the cup, as though attempting to hide behind it. 

As though water and ice could extinguish the fiery wrath of the scorned Señora McCree. The fiery, _truthful_ wrath. 

Of course, just because everything that Jesse’s mother had mentioned was true didn’t mean that she had to say it like that…

Jesse coughed into his fist, desperately to salvage the afternoon.

“Mamá –”

“Did he _also_ tell you, Mr. Shimada, that I had to sell his grandmother’s wedding ring just to pay the rent?” 

When all the water was gone, Hanzo started chewing on the ice. 

“Motherhood sounds… rather difficult,” Hanzo remarked, just for the sake of saying _something_.

“Oh, it is. Like you wouldn’t believe. You sacrifice, and sacrifice, and sacrifice, only to watch your babies grow up and drift away from you, anyways. You know they’re going to make mistakes. At first, it’s little things, like sneaking cookies out of the cupboard or jumping in puddles and ruining their Sunday clothes, but then… then it’s stuff you can’t correct. It’s stuff you can’t protect them from. You can only give them warnings you know they won’t listen to. …Your mamá is lucky, having a son like you. You look like an upstanding young man. Maybe it isn’t so bad that my Jesse has to work off the money he owes you. Maybe you could teach him the discipline that I couldn’t.”

He and Hanzo made eye contact, though Jesse wished, at that moment, that they hadn’t. Jesse could sense the awkwardness rolling off of him in waves. Defeated, all Jesse could do was slump down in his chair and pray that a sinkhole would crack open right beneath his feet and swallow him up, just to spare him the embarrassment.

“…Strange, is it not?” Hanzo replied, likely just to keep the conversation going, “My mother would have said quite the opposite and insisted that I have much to learn from _Jesse_. She has always detested my devotion to my work and my lack of interest in family and other trivial pursuits,” he sighed, half in embarrassment and half in what Jesse could recognize as sincere, hopeless despondency, “She and my brother are rather close, however. He has always been her ‘Little Sparrow.”

“And what are you?” Jesse asked, unable to repress his curiosity.

“Her ‘other son,’ whose name is not to be mentioned in her household,” Hanzo replied with a dispirited, quiet chuckle. “…And whose _presence_ is equally unwelcome.”

“Did she actually say those things about you?” Jesse’s mother asked, horrified. As much as she and Jesse argued, at the very least, her son always had a place in the nest. “But you’re _family_.”

“It was not a decision made lightly,” Hanzo countered with a melancholy smile, “Amongst Japan’s restaurant industry, I am rather well known for my somewhat ‘cutthroat’ business practices. …My opportunism.” Jesse didn’t miss that reference – he watched in silent curiosity as Hanzo steepled his fingers and closed his eyes with a quiet, gentle smile, pensive. “I am not the man that my mother had hoped that I would become. I was… rather unkind to my brother, while he worked under my supervision. Now, while the years have passed, and my mother and I still have not spoken in over a decade.”

“You and your brother seem pretty close, though,” Jesse’s mother stated out of nowhere, as she poured Hanzo another cup of water, “He’s that green-haired boy, right?”

“Hold up,” Jesse said, halting the conversation, “How do you know Genji?”

“He stopped by here this morning, before we opened. Asked me to make sure you didn’t rope his brother into something stupid.”

“A-And was that all he told you, or…” 

His mother didn’t even know he was bisexual, for God’s sake! Hell, even _he_ didn’t know he was bisexual, until just a few days ago. It was something that he wanted to explain on his own time, on his own terms – or, in typical Jesse fashion, to blurt it out carelessly, at the worst possible time.

“He told me that you’d gotten yourself into a mess of trouble, and now you’re lookin’ to cause more. _How_ , he didn’t say. But I thought we agreed, Jesse, that you’d pay Mr. Shimada back the honest way.”

“I will!” he groaned, running his hands down his face, “Look, I didn’t bring him here to pay him off with tacos and beans. I just… I just wanted to take him out.”

“What do you mean?” his mother asked. 

“ _To take. Him out_ ,” Jesse repeated, sweating profusely. 

Crossing his fingers, he prayed, desperately, to any god that would bother to listen that his mother would understand the implication, that she wouldn’t force him to spell it out in black and white, all in front of Hanzo, and that, most importantly, she wouldn’t throw a fit of moral _outrage_.

“Oh? … _Oh_ ,” she gasped, practically slapping her hand over her mouth in shock, “Is that the reason you’ve been so secretive lately? Oh, mijo, did you think that I would be ashamed of you? Not at all! Oh, I am so _proud_.”

“Mamá…”

“Are you going to be attending the parades from now on? Mamá can make posters and signs, if you’d like.”

“Mamá.”

Another gasp -

“Are the two of you –”

“No!” Jesse blurted, much to Hanzo’s surprise. The poor man, completely oblivious, sipped at his water. “Not yet. I’d just… I’d _really_ appreciate it Han and I could borrow the restaurant, so that I can make him a _pan tres leches_.” 

It wasn’t like there were customers, anyway.

“Of course, of course!” Jesse’s mother practically sang, jumping up from the table to clear up the plates. The difference in her attitude just about gave him whiplash, not that Jesse couldn’t understand. This was the day that his mother had always been waiting for: the day that Jesse McCree, undesirable, finally scored himself a date. “You boys have your fun. Just call for me if you need anything! And Mr. Shimada – _Hanzo_ – it was so good to meet you! Please feel free to stay in our restaurant as long as you’d like. In fact, please feel free to stay _forever_!” 

“Mamá!”

He practically had to push her out the door…

When they were alone, _finally_ alone, 

“Jesse, what did you mean when you stated that you wished to… ‘take me out?’”

“I just… I-”

Jesse sighed, running his hand over his face to stroke idly along his beard. This was not the time to stutter! Gathering his courage and building his resolve, Jesse straightened his back, resolute. Determination flowed through him: for once, Jesse McCree would not make a fool of himself in public! He thought back to all of the pointless romcoms that he’d been dragged to as a child. He thought of all the radionovelas that his mother kept on repeat in their home.

It was time… to be _smooth_.

“I mean exactly what I said,” Jesse declared, somehow able, by the Grace of God, to keep his wits about him. “I want to take you out, Han: to the fair, to the park, to that cheesecake place you like so much. I want to make up for all the things you’ve missed out on, over the years. I’ve _wanted_ to do that the second I walked into _Shimada_ and saw you behind the counter. Han… you’re _beautiful_. I want you to give me a chance.”

“But Jesse… I am a man,” Hanzo answered, stunned, as though he couldn’t even fathom being together at all. Even so, Jesse refused to be shaken. He pressed onward bravely… _Stupidly_.

“What about it?” he asked.

“You are _also_ a man. What, pray tell, could you ever desire from me?”

“I don’t want something _from_ you – I want _you_. Period.”

“…But I am a man,” Hanzo repeated, completely dumbfounded.

“Gender has nothing to do with love,” Jesse replied, drawing closer with a charming and stereotypical tip of his hat, darkening his gaze.

“But… how are two men supposed to lay together? I can only imagine that it would involve… ‘swordplay.’”

“It ain’t _jousting_ , Han, it’s… look, we don’t have to talk about that right now.” Not right then and there, anyway. Of course he wanted to sleep with Hanzo. _Of course he did_. He was beautiful! …But Jesse could be patient, just for him. “That ain’t what I’m interested in. Not entirely. I just want to be with you; I _always_ want to be with you. Even if I was stuck doin’ grunt work at Shimada, and carryin’ all your fish crates, these past few days that I’ve spent with you have been some of the best of my life. I just want you to give me a chance, here.” 

“What I truly do not understand, Jesse, is why you would wish to take a chance with _me_ ,” Hanzo groaned, squeezing at his nose bridge in exasperation, “I am not my brother; I have nothing to offer you. Neither excitement nor pleasant company.” 

“I know. You’re a sourpuss. You’re mean, and ornery, and a bit stuck-up… but you’ve got the talent to back it up. When you talk about sushi, or your brother – about something you _love_ \- you just… you _light up_. So damn bright. And I want you to sound like that when you’re talkin’ about _me_.”

“If this is a simply a jest, then… then I do not find it particularly humorous,” Hanzo stuttered, walking backwards to gain some distance. His face flushed bright crimson. Tucked into himself like an armadillo, the indominable Hanzo Shimada of _Shimada_ sushi looked positively _timid_. 

Jesse shook his head, resolute. 

“I’ve never been more serious ‘bout anything else.” Slowly, trying his damnest not to shock him further, Jesse offered Hanzo his hand. “Let me make you that caramel cake, Han. Let someone take care of you, for once in your life.”

Hanzo stared down at his proffered hand with wide eyes, looking more like a deer in the headlights than the infamous “Sushi Nazi” of _Shimada_. Despite Hanzo’s fear, however, Jesse noticed it – that tentative smile, equal parts uncertainty and _excitement_. As though all of Jesse’s stars aligned for him at just the right moment, for once in his life, he held his breath, watching as Hanzo slowly slid their hands together. It was only then that Jesse noticed the scars marring Hanzo’s fingers: a thousand cuts to serve as evidence of the years of tireless training he’d endured.

“That’s it,” Jesse encouraged, giving Hanzo’s hand a gentle squeeze, “You work too hard. Let yourself live a little.”

“And… what would that entail?”

With a playful grin, Jesse led Hanzo behind the counter to dig up an old bottle of whiskey from the little cubby hidden beneath the cash register. Perhaps it wasn’t quite wise to drink before he played with the oven, but at that moment, walking on air, Jesse just couldn’t be bothered to give a damn in the slightest. 

“Cheers!” 

He slid Hanzo’s glass across the counter and raised his own expectedly. With a hesitant smile that slowly grew in its bravery, Hanzo clinked their glasses together and took a sip – only to cough and sputter like a goddamn kid…

Jesse couldn’t help but laugh. “Oof, that did not sound good. Sorry, was it too strong, Sweet Pea?” 

“No, the fumes, they… they _sting_ …” Hanzo continued to struggle, wiping at his damp eyes with his sleeve. “And that smell - you have such unrefined tastes!”

“What can I say? I like a little bite to my liquor – and look at it this way: you get to look extra fancy sippin’ at your sake when you’re standin’ next to a rugged guy like me.”

Shaking his head, Hanzo grabbed their glasses and rinsed them both, before uncorking the little gourd… _thing_ … that he always kept hanging at his hip. 

“Here,” he offered, handing Jesse a glass of clear liquid, “If you are to… ‘court me,’ then I insist that you learn to drink properly.”

“Yes, dear,” Jesse replied with quiet laughter, before clinking their glasses together for a second time. 

___________________________________________

In the end, the ambitious creation of the ultimate _pan tres leches_ had ended in resounding and humiliating failure. They’d mixed up the batter, popped it in the over, and forgotten all about it until the smoke alarms went off, leaving them scrambling out of the break room, knocking over shot glasses and bowls of salt in the process.

That had earned them both a scathing lecture from Jesse’s mother… though in a way, Jesse could tell that she was endlessly pleased - perhaps not by the mess in her kitchen, but by the way he and Hanzo had stood side by side through her scolding, smiling despite their shame. Banned from Blackwatch Tacos for the rest of the evening, Jesse simply had no choice but to escort his companion through the bar scene despite his protests – 

That the tables were sticky.

That the people smelled of sweat and failure, and that Hanzo feared that their inadequacy would rub off on him.

That he only went to bars with leather couches, and that Jesse’s choice of bar featured torn, plastic seating, instead, and that the only other options were bar stools that were just as sticky as both the tables and the clientele.

That the liquor was cheap, and the food was greasy and obviously frozen.

To think that Hanzo had complained about all of it… when now, _he_ was the one practically vacuuming up a third helping of jalapeno poppers. 

Stacks of empty shot glasses littered their table, interspersed only between discarded bottles and drying puddles of spilt liquor – most of it, Hanzo’s. He drank it down like a dying man, pounding back shot after shot. Jesse was shocked that he didn’t have to call an ambulance, considering the sheer volume of liquor that he’d consumed. _Enough to kill a small child from across the room just from exposure_ , Jesse considered. Despite his squeaky-clean, taciturn appearance, Hanzo could certainly hold his liquor… and he certainly let go of his inhibitions easily enough. Four drinks, and the stoic, antisocial Hanzo magically became just as talkative as the average bear. Six, and he was positively loud. Eight, and he was shameless. Everything about him was: his laughter, his movements -

And by God, his _singing_ \- every tune, carried not with rhythm and grace, but with a roiling, drunken passion. Dissonant. Screeching, slow and slurring _nails on a chalkboard_ , made beautiful only by Jesse’s knowledge that for a single night, Hanzo had come to life. Fireworks, a veritable atom bomb, burst forth from a man who almost never spoke at all. 

It was horrific and glorious: the most beautiful sight, he’d ever seen. 

Hanzo’s perfect little ponytail, undone, spilling inky black tangles over his shoulders. His voice could shatter windows. Practically screaming some ridiculous Japanese pop song, Hanzo gripped that poor microphone hard enough to turn his knuckles white, strangling the life out of that poor thing. Jesse had no clue what on earth he was singing about – ‘plastic love,’ whatever that meant – but that song was more beautiful to him, at that moment, than even the hymns his mother sang at church every Sunday. Though he could have sat at that bar, mesmerized, for a veritable eternity, Jesse knew that their time there was limited. 

“Pumpkin,” Jesse said, the moment Hanzo had finished his little song and plopped back down onto the torn sofa to pour himself another shot of cheap tequila, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No,” he slurred, furiously shaking his head, “No, the night is still young.”

“…It’s two in the morning. The bar closes in about five minutes.”

“Not yet –” Hanzo protested, practically whining, sounding more like a petulant child than a nearly forty year old man. “I _never_ get to go out. When I was a boy, Jesse-kun, my father had imposed a -” A strange sound escaped Hanzo’s throat: half a gurgle, half a gag. “A _curfew_ on my brother and me. We were not to stay out past sundown.”

“Is that so?” he asked, surreptitiously pushing the remaining bottles of liquor out of Hanzo’s reach, “Sorry to hear it. That’s really too bad.”

“Oh, it was awful. My brother paid that curfew no heed, but I wanted to make my father proud. …So, I obeyed. I took extra shifts at the restaurant, I worked hard, and… I never dated. Or went out. …Or did much of anything. But while I had always followed the rules enforced by my elders, despite my brother’s presumptions, I… I did not enjoy doing so. In truth, I envied Genji: his freedom, his carefree mannerisms, his natural confidence. Whenever he would regale to me the stories of his grand adventures in the Tokyo nightlife, I would wish that we could trade places, if only for a moment.”

“Don’t tell me that Hanzo Shimada, king of the workaholics, secretly wants a fun, easy life,” Jesse teased as he hoisted Hanzo up, throwing his arm over his shoulder. 

“Of course not. …Not always, anyway. I love my work, but tonight was… special. I do not want it to come to a close. I finally understand what my brother meant when he spoke of ‘having fun.’ …And now I am beginning to realize all that I have given up to lift my business to such great heights. Is it so wrong of me to want more, at times?”

“Not at all.” Struggling to walk with Hanzo stumbling behind him, Jesse closed out their tab and made his way out of the bar with Hanzo, none the wiser, lost as he was in his drunken haze. “You can have it both ways, Sweet Pea. You can still run your restaurant with an iron first, just as always, but at the end of the day… well, maybe we can live it up a little. Just you and me.”

“And Genji.”

“Just you. And me,” Jesse repeated, choosing to ignore Hanzo’s little interjection. “Your brother doesn’t really like me, you know that?”

Hanzo’s only answer was a moment’s pause, followed by a bout of vivacious laughter. 

Only ten minutes of walking and drunken conversation later, they’d returned to the restaurant. Fumbling with Hanzo’s keys, Jesse busted down the door of _Shimada_ sushi, stumbling inside and dragging Hanzo up the stairs to his lonely little studio. Climbing up that one flight of steps felt more akin to scaling a mountain. Hanzo was heavier than he looked – toned, despite the fact that he spent all day cutting fish instead of lifting weights. Jesse could feel the stiff firmness of muscle beneath his clothing with every movement. By the time he made it to the top of the stairs, Jesse was weak and out of breath, his limbs, turned to jelly.

“Oh, Jesse,” Hanzo crooned with drunken delight that made his knees weaker than they already were, “Your heart is pounding…”

“Is it?” he chuckled, unable to hide his interest. He stopped before Hanzo’s doorway, pressing him against the wall, caging him in, “…I wonder why that could be.” 

“Is it not obvious?” Hanzo’s laughter, high-pitched and wild, echoed through the empty restaurant. “It is because you are _out of shape_ , Jesse!” 

…Oh.

Taken aback by Hanzo’s brutal honesty, Jesse slapped his hand against his face, hiding his eyes in sheer embarrassment that stunned him more than a bullet in the back. “Wh-What?”

Hanzo patted his stomach fondly – or rather, his beer belly; Jesse wasn’t as fit as he was back in high school. 

“We should train together from now on. I have a tatami room in the basement that I have converted into a makeshift dojo for evening workout regimens. You should join me.”

Without a moment’s warning, Hanzo threw a clumsy punch in his general direction, missing entirely. Laughing, he stumbled forward from the momentum.

“Whoa there, cowboy!” Jesse lunged for him, catching Hanzo just moments before he slipped and tumbled down the stairs. “…Maybe we can train tomorrow. Right now, I think you need to get some sleep. How does that sound, Sunshine?”

Standing so close to him, holding the man against his chest, Jesse caught the scent of Hanzo’s hair: yuzu and sage. He reached for it, dipping his fingers into inky, black strands, accentuated only by flashes of startling silver. Hanzo groaned, leaning against him as he turned his face. 

“Are you listening, Sweet Pea?” Jesse asked, returning Hanzo’s casual smile, “You want to go to bed?”

“Perhaps. Though I must ask… will I be sleeping alone?” Hanzo crooned, staring up at him with that ‘come hither’ gaze that set his heart pounding a mile a minute, all over again. Hanzo’s touch shot lightning up his spine; delicate fingertips, brushing against his chest. “Or… would you care to keep me company?”

_**YES!** _

The scream bubbled up in his throat, turning his face red-hot and glowing with the sheer effort of holding back a vivacious burst of excitement, a boom of sound and color to rival the Big Bang, itself. 

_**FUCK YEAH!** _

Hanzo hip brushed up against his groin. There was no way in hell he wouldn’t have noticed that bulge. 

Though time seemed to be moving faster than ever, it somehow left Jesse behind. His thoughts slowed to a standstill, his movements, cumbersome. Hanzo was on him in an instant, standing on his tip-toes – their faces, mere inches apart, close enough to catch the booze on his breath.

Though he wished for nothing more than to tear off Hanzo’s clothing and ravage him, right there against the wall, Jesse cupped Hanzo’s face, stopping him before he could go in for a kiss.

“…No, Han,” he hushed, stroking his thumb against his cheek as the man’s expression shifted from a warm, alcohol-hazed longing to the bitter sting of rejection. “You’re drunk. You’ll regret this in the morning.”

“I will not,” he insisted, though Jesse quickly shushed him.

“You will. I know you. You don’t want your first time to be like _this_ : some quickie that you didn’t really think through - and where you’ll only remember patches of it. I want something better for you.” 

“Is it because you do not desire _me_?” Hanzo asked, then, with palpable fear that made his heart ache.

“No. _God_ , I’ve wanted you since the first minute I set foot in this shop. …But I want to do you right. When you wake up in the morning, if you don’t hate me by then… let’s get you out of this restaurant once in a while and show you around town. Let’s introduce you to the locals, and all my family – and let’s show up your brother and his girlfriend at karaoke. God knows they won’t stand a chance against you!” 

“You forget that I am never second best,” Hanzo said, slowly allowing Jesse to mend his fractured confidence with gentle little touches and whispered, sweet promises. 

“No, ‘course not,” he answered with absolute honesty, “You’re perfect.”

He heaved his arm over his shoulder and led him through the doorway, though halfway through, Hanzo legs went slack, forcing Jesse to catch him before he collapsed against the tatami mats. 

“Ugh… I-I cannot –”

“Okay, okay – let’s get to the bathroom.”

What a night.

It wasn’t quite was Jesse was expecting: holding Hanzo’s hair back in a tiny little bathroom with a broken mirror and blood on the floor. Wiping his mouth. Holding his cup to his lips while he sipped at an Alka-Seltzer. 

It wasn’t what he had planned or even what he wanted – but it was intimate in a way that left him knowing that he’d made the right decision.

Jesse tucked him into his futon and rolled him onto his side, before grabbing an extra blanket from the closet and lying down beside him. 

“I thought that you were leaving,” Hanzo muttered, as his exhaustion began to overpower his nausea.

“Yeah, well… someone’s gotta make sure you don’t pass out and choke on your own vomit. Genji’d kill me if I let that happen to you. Hell, he’d do worse than kill me.”

What was it he’d said? He would… turn him grind him into a thin, red paste and mail a portion of his remains to everyone he’s ever loved?

“I remember… You mentioned that my brother disliked you. Did he threaten you?”

“A little. He’s a good guy. He loves you, you know? He wouldn’t want you to keep on punishing yourself like this.” Jesse said, gesturing to the bathroom and to the vast, quiet emptiness of the room around them. “Starting tomorrow, let’s start renovating this place. We’ll paint the walls, and fix your bathroom, and get you a real lamp.”

“Jesse… You do not owe me anything. I consider your debt null and void. You are not obligated to aid me.”

“I want to,” he answered, running his fingers through Hanzo’s hair, “Or at least, I will if you let me. Tomorrow, once you sober up, let’s see how you feel about it. But if you’d let me, I want to take care of you.” 

“Oh, but I wish to take care of you, as well,” Hanzo replied with a quiet chuckle and a gentle touch against his face, tracing his jawline, “Just look at you. When was the last time that you exfoliated?”

“…What?”

He didn’t even know what ‘exfoliated’ meant. Was that even a word? Was Hanzo just interjecting random Japanese into his sentences?

“And your hair… you have so many split ends. When was the last time you cut it?”

It must have been months. He’d set his hair on fire, somehow, and had to cut it off using a meat cleaver in the back of Blackwatch Tacos. Not that Hanzo needed to know that.

“Does it really look that bad?”

“It is nothing that I cannot fix. You have nothing to worry about,” Hanzo insisted with a determined nod that Jesse found completely unreliable, considering the heavy stench of booze on his breath.

“Really, now? What about my debt? What about Blackwatch?”

“ _Nothing_.” Smiling like a fool, Hanzo snuggled up closer to him, wrapping his arm around Jesse’s shoulders. “You should allow somebody take care of _you_ , for once in your life, Jesse.” 

At that moment, Jesse realized that he’d been struggling, too: shaking off the past that seemed to haunt him everywhere he went, ruining his job prospects. Holding his family together. Always scrounging for money. His own life hadn’t been easy.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, throwing his blanket over Hanzo, to envelop them both in a little, makeshift cocoon, “…I guess I should.”


	7. Chapter 7

At the end of the year, Blackwatch Tacos just couldn’t keep their doors open any longer. It was still somewhat of a sore spot for the McCree family: losing their restaurant in fair competition, even against someone as beloved to their family as Hanzo. They shut the place down on May 13th in an event that just about everyone saw coming: emptying out the freezer and offering half-priced food that nobody bought. Señora McCree stood in the doorway and wept against Hanzo’s shoulder, all the while insisting that she wasn’t angry. She would be praying for his continued success. Even Jesse’s sister seemed sad to let the old restaurant go, taking photographs of the empty building as she said her goodbyes. Despite the extent of their emotional trauma, nobody could deny that the McCree family had a long time to prepare for it. Blackwatch’s downfall was all a painfully predictable turn of events. The only thing that nobody would have ever expected just one year ago was for Jesse to end up working at the competition.

…And _marrying_ the competition.

Despite everything he’d said, despite his insistence that he would go down with his ship, when push came to shove, or rather, when Genji wanted to retire and when Hanzo asked for help, Jesse just couldn’t say no. After all that, he’d ended up working at _Shimada_ , anyway – not that he could be bitter about it, when he loved Hanzo more than the stars over midnight ranges, themselves, and certainly not when he and Hanzo wore matching engagement rings and lived in the same damn apartment. Supporting his fiancé’s business seemed more like a natural next step instead of an act of admitting defeat.

It also helped that Hanzo paid well – more than enough to support Jesse’s mother in her retirement and his sister, during her last year of high school. 

All things considered, life was good.

Standing with Hanzo behind the counter, Jesse watched his mentor’s hands glide over the bamboo cutting board with perfect precision. Hanzo’s blade met no resistance, slicing through tough tuna like a hot knife through butter. Every cut, confident and purposeful, held Jesse mesmerized - and he knew, more than ever, then, that no matter how long he practiced, that level of mastery would forever elude him. A craftsman like Hanzo was born into the world only once, perhaps twice, in a century. 

That kind of skill could never be taught. 

All of Jesse’s training was pointless. He had the heart and the soul of a chef, certainly, but at the end of the day, he just didn’t have the talent. Never would he rise above the status of a small-town cook when he was destined more for _Dirty Dining_ than _Iron Chef_. No, that brand of glory and fame resided in Hanzo’s realm – not his. Not as though Jesse ever had the chance to watch _Iron Chef_ anymore, after Hanzo’s appearance on the program - and the subsequent ban on all mentions of the show ever since. 

Jesse quickly learned that one thing was certain: despite Hanzo’s intrinsic aura of honor and dignity, his “Honey Cakes" sure was a sore loser. 

While he accepted defeat with dignity and grace on-camera, the moment he’d returned to the privacy of their hotel room, Hanzo had collapsed onto their bed and refused to get up for almost a full twenty-four hours, afterwards. Losing the _Iron Chef_ challenge had dealt a devastating blow to Hanzo’s confidence. It had been a close match; everybody loved Hanzo’s dishes - they just happened to love his competitor’s more. Jesse had repeated that fact to him countless times, but to Hanzo, the fact that he _almost_ won didn’t matter. No matter how close it was, he _lost_. 

He simply couldn’t live that down. 

After returning home, they’d had to close _Shimada_ for a week while he “recovered from his accident,” as told by Genji on Facebook. All the while, behind closed doors, Jesse held him and soothed his wounded pride… and fed him comfort food in the dark at 3 AM. 

He didn’t mind caring for Hanzo during his slump. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t understand his disappointment. Even so, while knowing that Hanzo wouldn’t approve, Jesse kept a recorded copy of that _Iron Chef_ episode, regardless. He’d caught his fiancé trying to delete it multiple times, already - he was so ashamed of his defeat – but the simple truth was that Jesse loved that episode. It made fall in love all over again. What appealed to him was not Hanzo’s skill or lack thereof but the way he had pushed himself beyond his limits, stepping out of his comfort zone to make his first media appearance since the catastrophic mess that was _The Opportunist_.

He’d made an effort – and for that, Jesse was proud of him. Hell, _everybody_ was, with how much he’d changed as of late. For once, Hanzo was in a good enough place in his life where his brother didn’t feel the need to hover over his shoulder. No, Genji was free – free to quit the restaurant business for good and pursue his dreams of becoming a starving artist: making terrible music that nobody liked and crafting formless art pieces that would never see the inside of a museum.

But at least he was happy.

Nowadays, that green-haired little shit only ever came back to _Shimada_ as a customer, to savor his brother’s masterpieces and to sample Jesse’s trainwrecks.

“Huh, I’ve never eaten anything like this before,” Genji remarked, before taking a bite of Jesse’s latest creation.

“I call it a ‘yakitori taco,’” Jesse explained, “Kind of an ‘east meets southwest,’ experience. The chicken is Japanese-inspired, but the salsa is my family’s recipe. I really think it’s -”

“ _Awful_.” Genji interjected, cutting him off like a guillotine - and then slamming the blade down time and time again, just for good measure. “It’s gross. Sick. Nauseating.”

“Oh, come on! It ain’t that bad!” Jesse practically shouted.

“No, it’s bad, alright. It’s more than just ‘bad,’ but I’m pretty sure my brother would kick me out of here if I used that kind of language. …I can’t believe you actually let your Cow-Pie put this on the menu, Anija. What were you thinking? Did you fall down and hit your head or something? Did the real Hanzo get abducted by aliens and replaced by a clone? I mean, you won’t even cook curry because it’s ‘not traditional enough’ for you, but then here you are, serving up stuff mysteries like _this_.” Genji scoffed, gesticulating wildly towards the sad, crumbled taco. “What even _is_ this?”

“It’s a yakitori taco!” Jesse repeated only to be cut off by Hanzo’s exasperated, echoing sigh that seemed to stretch on for minutes at a time. 

Hanzo squeezed at his nose bridge and shook his head, giving off the appearance of a man who wished for nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

“It is as Jesse says. It is a… ‘yakitori taco.’ It is our new happy hour special.”

“Happy hour?!” Just like a cartoon caricature, Genji’s mouth fell wide open in wild disbelief. He slapped his hands down onto the bar, knocked over his soy sauce dish, and dragged his chair a little closer to get a better look at Hanzo – as though he simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Since when does this restaurant have a happy hour? Since when are your customers even allowed to be happy, _period_? I thought you had a ‘no laughing’ rule!”

“Come on, quit teasin’ him,” Jesse chuckled, as he wrapped his arm around his lover’s shoulder, pulling him close. “Take it easy. Han’s still in a bit of a rut after that _Iron Chef_ thing.”

Hanzo couldn’t have pulled away from him any faster – “Did I or did I not state over one month ago that I no longer wished to hear about that _ridiculous_ television program?!” 

“Alright, alright! I’m sorry!” He raised his hands in surrender, all with a rumbling laugh.

“Continue, and you will be. Speak that name one more time, and you will be spending your evenings alone with your mother. Remember that while I gave you the key to this building, there is nothing that can stop me from taking it back.”

“But you love me! …Don’t you?” 

Another sigh – this one, relenting; Hanzo couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “I would not be serving ‘yakitori tacos’ if I did not.”

“You two are so cute, it’s disgusting,” Genji interjected suddenly, staring up at his brother with a strange expression, caught between mirth and, for once, sincere admiration. “Seriously though, I’m happy for you. I’m really looking forward to being your best man!”

Best man by default, anyway. 

It was a bit of an elephant in the room: on the day of their wedding, Hanzo’s side of the room would be completely empty, save for Genji – and perhaps Angela, if she could even be convinced to come. All of Hanzo’s so-called friends, his family and business contacts back in Japan, had dropped him like a hot potato the moment they learned just who he was marrying. A foreigner, yes, but most scandalous of all, a _man_.

He was dead to them, now. 

A man who kept few people in his social circle had found himself even more isolated than ever. 

“I have my speech ready and everything. Listen!” Genji downed his cup of sake and coughed into his fist. “ _Ladies and germs_ –”

Hanzo’s throat emitted a groan so low and guttural, so terrible, that it sounded as though he were on his deathbed. 

“Thank you for coming out to support my brother’s big day – or in other words, to support the day of his big _coming out_!” Genji raised his arms, as though anticipating a round of applause and raucous laughter that never came. “Now, I know this is a real sacrifice on your part,” he continued, “Nobody likes going to weddings: they’re dull and boring – doubly so, since this is Hanzo’s. I hope you all like sake, red beans, and kabuki tracks because that’s what lies in your future. Seriously, skip the reception.” More waiting. “I mean it. There will be no dancing and _definitely_ no laughing - because Hanzo has literally banned those two things from his household. He is least fun person I’ve ever met, and honestly, I was actually starting to worry that he would spend the rest of his life as a miserable, grouchy old man: alone, sucking on hard caramels and watching Wheel of Fortune while simultaneously complaining about young people and their poor work ethic to his fifty cats. But against all odds – and I mean _all the odds_ , he did it: my big brother is getting married! Jesse, I’d like to take this time to officially welcome you into the honorable Shimada clan. You are one of us, now! I accept you as my brother. After a long day of getting nagged at by Hanzo, let us grab a drink together - if he lets you out of the house past your eight o’clock curfew.”

“I veto your speech,” Hanzo said, deadpan. He didn’t even bother to look Genji in the eye when he said it. Instead, he went right on back to cutting his fish – though Jesse could sense his growing irritation by the tension in his jaw, clenched tighter than a vice.

“Oh, but Anija, you have no veto power,” Genji practically cackled, “This best-man-dom is an authoritarian dictatorship - not a democracy! …Besides, why are you so upset? All best man speeches are just roasts in reality; I thought even you knew that! But just because I joke around a little doesn’t mean that I don’t love you, Hanzo. You know that no one is more proud of you than I am.”

“You always say that, but what does it even mean?” Hanzo asked. “My marrying Jesse is not an accomplishment – it is simply an event. A very happy one, all things considered, but a simple event all the same.”

“Here I thought it’d be obvious,” Genji scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m proud of you because you have blossomed from a sad, antisocial earthworm into a beautiful, gay butterfly!”

“…Earthworms do not turn into butterflies,” Hanzo corrected, as stiff as ever – and completely missing the point. 

“They do, in your case. This is a huge change that I never would have expected from you in a million years! It seems like only yesterday that you were heating up cup noodles on your little hot plate upstairs, but here you are, making homecooked meals with a filthy _gaijin_. You refused to even go outside for anything other than business, but now look at you! When we go out our double dates, I swear, you and Jesse look happier than even me and Angela sometimes.” 

Jesse couldn’t deny it; Hanzo _did_ look happier. 

Even when Hanzo was scowling at demanding customers or arguing over prices in the fish market, there was light in his eyes and color on his cheeks. In many ways, Jesse had softened him. The stiffness in his posture was gone, now, during all but the worst of times - and he smiled more often than not, at least in private, charmed by the little love notes that Jesse texted to him at all hours of the day. 

Hanzo was never a man who enjoyed public displays of affection, and yet even he couldn’t resist displaying the photos of himself and Jesse on just about every wall of the restaurant: the brightly colored pictures, clashing against the traditional, subtle Japanese décor. 

Taking note of their latest installment, a photograph of Hanzo sitting with the McCree family at their Thanksgiving table, Genji paused his ceaseless laughter. He lifted the little, framed photo to the light, studying it with careful contemplation. His ever-present, fake smile slowly fell. 

“I really am proud of you, Anija. Really. Mother is, too, you know.”

Hanzo’s laughter, curt and incredulous, cut through the air with cold finality. Even the indominable Genji flinched back at the frigidity in his tone. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“She is. When I told her you were getting married, she was -”

“Appalled.”

“… _Surprised_ ,” Genji corrected. “You know, since she hadn’t heard about any business deals. She always thought that if you ever decided to tie the knot, it would be through some arranged married planned out by the elders. But when I told her you were marrying a foreigner, somebody with _no money_ , she actually sounded happy. Happy for _you_. She wanted to know everything: what Jesse looked like, and what you looked like, now.”

“Did you send her copies of my photographs?”

“No, of course not,” Genji sighed, running his hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t do that to you; I know you’re not close and that you want to keep your distance. But Mother isn’t out to get you, you know. I really think she just wants you to be happy.”

“I repeat: somehow, I sincerely doubt that. I do not recall a single instance in my life when that woman has ever supported me.”

“Anija, no offense, but –” Genji cut himself short, simply shaking his head before returning his attention to the bottle of homebrewed beer that Jesse brewed in their garage. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Treading on ice, as he often did when Hanzo was in one of his “moods,” Jesse placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. 

“I think what he’s tryin’ to say, Pumpkin, is that you weren’t exactly doin’ things that your mom would’ve wanted to support in the first place.” Hanzo’s scathing glare just about turned his bones to jelly. Immediately, Jesse raised his hands in placating surrender, taking a step back by instinct alone. “N-Now I don’t mean anything by it! It’s just that… you’ve changed a lot over the past few years, and for the better. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Hanzo kept on scowling, and yet the fact that he hadn’t immediately shot Jesse down was a clear sign that he was listening. Jesse knew him well enough to understand his mannerisms, by then.

“I’m sure she’s happy to know that you and Genji are talkin’ again. She probably just wants a chance to make things right with you, just like you did with your brother. Don’t you think she deserves that much, at the very least? If you don’t want to have her at the wedding – hell, if you don’t even want to see her ever again – I’ll have your back, but if you ask me, I think it’d be good for you to clear the air. You, uh… You have a lot of enemies, Han – and not too many allies.”

“You and Genji are all that I need.”

“I know, I know…” Jesse chuckled as his cheeks turned cherry-pie red. A part of him was still amazed that Hanzo had even accepted him at all. “But it wouldn’t hurt to have another person in your corner.”

“On the contrary: it would wound my _pride_.”

Genji groaned, practically tearing out his grassy hair. “It ‘wounds your pride’ when someone cuts you off in traffic! Sorry to say this, Anija, but maybe your ‘pride’ is due to sustain a little injury now and then. Here is what is going to happen: I am going to call mother, and you and Jesse are going to talk to her.”

“Why are you doing this to me? What have I ever done to deserve such antipathy?” Hanzo grumbled, sounding every bit like a little boy instead of a grown man. 

Jesse hushed him before straightening Hanzo’s clothing, “It’ll be fine, Sweet Pea. This is for your own good.”

As Hanzo continued to bitch and moan, Jesse watched curiously at the way Genji’s fingers shook as he scrolled through his contacts for his mother’s number - almost as though he couldn’t contain his excitement. His older brother, the hermit, would finally release himself from solitary confinement to speak with their mother for the first time in years. 

The phone rang once, then twice –

“Well, that is certainly too bad. I suppose that Mother is too busy to pick up the telephone,” Hanzo shrugged, without even bothering to feign disappointment. 

“Give it a minute,” Genji scolded. When their mother finally answered, much to Hanzo’s dismay, Genji began speaking to her on Facetime at lightning speed and with animated passion that conveyed his overflowing excitement better than mere words ever could. Not as though Jesse could understand what he was saying. Judging by Hanzo’s expression, however, it certainly wasn’t something that he approved of.

“Okay –” Genji said at last, “Are you ready, Anija?”

Hanzo just blinked back, deadpan. “No.”

“Are you ready, Jesse? If my brother tries to run away, you have to catch him and hold him down so that he stays on video.”

Jesse only blinked back, stunned. “And… how the hell am I supposed to do that? You do know that when me and your brother train downstairs, he kicks my ass every time?”

“Just squeeze the skin behind his neck, and his entire body will go limp!”

“Genji…” Jesse muttered in disheartened monotone. “I think you got your brother confused with a cat.”

“Nonsense!” The younger man replied, waving aside his interjection. “Now, come on! We’re interrupting Mother’s daytime television for this call.”

Before Hanzo could utter a single protest, Genji practically shoved his phone into his hands. 

Glancing over his fiancé’s shoulder, Jesse looked down at the screen, taking in the visage of a smiling Japanese woman who couldn’t have been much older than Hanzo, himself. He remembered what little he had told him about her: that she’d dropped out of high school just to enter into an arranged marriage with the legendary Sojiro Shimada. That she had fallen pregnant before she was ready and had resented her husband ever since. Perhaps she’d even resented Hanzo from the very beginning for that exact same reason. It was just another of Hanzo’s angry, depressing, alcohol-fueled stories of how everyone betrayed him and how the world always awful – and how Jesse was the only good thing he had in his life when even Genji had turned on him for a time. As much as he’d changed and as much as he loved Genji, a leopard couldn’t change its spots. Hanzo was still bitter, during his lowest moments. And Jesse always listened. He always let him rage and rant, but when Jesse took in his mother’s expression, she didn’t strike him as the callous, hateful old demon that Hanzo had always claimed her to be. 

In fact, she seemed relieved just to see her son alive and breathing.

“Hanzo?” she asked tentatively, bringing her phone closer to her face to get a better look at him, “Hanzo, is that you? My, how you have grown…”

“It comes as no surprise to me that you cannot even recognize your own child.”

At first, she’d smiled – though when Hanzo’s scowl only deepened in response, the woman’s face fell, straightening itself into an expression so cold that it rivalled even Hanzo’s frigidity.

“There is no need to be pedantic. You know full well that it was only an expression.”

Hanzo’s eye twitched; Jesse feared that he would burst a blood vessel at any second. Time ticked onwards, and mother and son only stared at each other in silence, deep in the middle of a frowning contest. 

He had to do something, fast. 

“Howdy, Ma’am,” Jesse chirped, as loud and obnoxious as ever, if only to defuse the growing tension between mother and son, “The name’s Jesse, and I know this funny, comin’ out of nowhere like this, but in just a few months, I’m gonna be your son-in-law.” 

…Shit. No response. Just that wide-eyed, fish out of water look.

“M-May I just say that you are lookin’ mighty fine this afternoon,” he continued. “I see where my Honey Cakes gets his looks!”

“You said that your name was ‘Jesse?’” Hanzo’s mother interjected suddenly, cutting off Jesse’s awkward laughter.

“That’s right, Ma’am. Jesse McCree.” 

“But… you are a _man_.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow – why did she look so surprised? He swallowed hard around the growing lump in his throat, even as he forced on his best, most charming smile. 

“What about it?”

“Hanzo is _also_ a man.”

He was getting some serious déjà vu. 

“Hold up – didn’t Genji already tell you about me?”

“He told me that my son was getting married to an American named ‘Jesse.’”

“…That’s right.”

“But Jessica is a _woman’s_ name.”

“I-It’s not Jessica. It’s just… It’s just ‘Jesse.’” 

“Unbelievable…” She shook her head. “Hanzo, you cannot be a –” The woman shook her head in disbelief. “ _Are_ you a –” 

Unable to hold her son’s eye contact any longer, she simply stared down at her own feet. When she next spoke, it was in frantic, harshly whispered Japanese that turned Hanzo’s skin a sickly-pale white. It was a series of clearly upsetting questions, most likely - an _interrogation_ \- Though Hanzo didn’t say a single word in response. He only stood behind the counter, stiff and still, barely breathing. 

“Hey!” Jesse interjected, before she could upset Hanzo further, “I think that’s enough out of you. Now I ain’t gonna presume to understand what you’re sayin’, but it’s upsetting Han, and that’s reason enough for me to cut you short. I won’t stand for shit-talk like that.”

“I meant no offense,” Hanzo’s mother said with a too-familiar, exasperated sigh. “Do not misunderstand me: I do not inherently disapprove. I only wonder if you are certain about this. Hanzo, are you actually going to marry this man?”

“…Yes.”

“Do you love him?”

Though Hanzo’s posture was as tense as ever, at the very least, he’d regained the courage to stare back at her, firm and unyielding. 

“Yes.”

She sighed, low and lingering, though in the end… she relented. She shook her head, clearly shell-shocked, but Jesse could tell that she’d already lost her momentum when it came to arguing any further. “Are you not afraid of the consequences of this relationship on your business?”

“This city, Mother, is not quite as traditional as Hanamura,” Hanzo explained.

Always eager to leap to Hanzo’s defense, Jesse chimed in with his own two cents. “Anyways, even if _Shimada_ went under, it isn’t like we’d be out of options. We could sell your little Bentley and buy ourselves a food truck. We could open Blackwatch Tacos… _Two_!”

“We are not opening a _taco truck_ , Jesse.” 

“Come on, you know you’d love it,” he teased, if only to lighten the mood. “You make a mean sushi burrito.”

“They are not something that I would ever serve to the public; I only prepare them occasionally for supper because _you_ enjoy them.” 

If that wasn’t a declaration of love, Jesse didn’t know what was. Just like that, the old cowboy was grinning from ear to ear – his tension, melting away. 

A woman’s laughter echoed through their little restaurant; lovesick, Jesse had almost forgotten about her. “A sushi burrito?”

“Yeah,” Jesse answered. “It’s Japanese-Southwestern fusion. A little bit of both our worlds.” 

“Your worlds combined…” she echoed hesitantly, though kindly enough. “If it is a shared recipe, then… do the two of you work together?”

Hanzo nodded. “Yes. _Shimada_ is… a ‘family restaurant,’ now more than ever,” Hanzo answered, “Jesse is still learning, but he has been a great help following Genji’s retirement.”

“You are allowing a novice to work in your kitchen?” she asked, as though such as prospect was more unbelievable than a cure to cancer and a solution to world hunger. “What about your ratings?” 

Despite the shame of it all, Hanzo couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“We have lost all but one of our Michelin stars… and half of a star on Yelp. But there are things in this world, Mother, that are more important than money and the intangible concept of honor. I love Jesse. This restaurant means nothing to me if we cannot run it together.”

Her eyes widened, then, staring through the little screen in silence. Jesse could see the confusion in the furrow of her brow – and he watched as it faded away, replaced, slowly, by calm acceptance, if not quite a sincere understanding. 

“I see,” she said in quiet tones, “You have grown, my son.”

Hanzo’s subtle smile curved upwards. As reached for Jesse’s hand, Genji, suppressing his smile, turned away, pretending not to look as they wove their fingers together. 

“Because of Jesse, I have.”


End file.
